


Married with Children

by shell



Series: Going Under [6]
Category: Hard Core Logo (1996), Homicide: Life on the Street
Genre: M/M, Series, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-05-16
Updated: 2002-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 05:36:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell/pseuds/shell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Next set of stories in Going Under.  Discussion of substance abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home Again

**Author's Note:**

> Beta thanks to the usual suspects, including Bethann, CatMoran, Kit Mason, and Ardent.

We make it home okay, and the conversation with the kids and Tim's mom goes pretty well. Ruthie's a little confused by the whole thing, and Virginia's not sure how she feels about it, either, but Sarah's happy--about the wedding, anyway.

Neither kid is thrilled about moving to Flagstaff, although they do a good job of hiding it. I can't say I blame them--this will be their third school in a year, a year that's already had enough trauma and change for a fucking lifetime. Their grandmother's pleased we're leaving LA, even if we're not going to be much closer to Baltimore.  
The general mood gets a little brighter when Tim tells the family some of his plans for the house. Virginia and Sarah are intent on security, while Ruth's more interested in helping her dad design a pool. Sarah remembers more about the area than I realized, and gets a little more enthusiastic when she finds out how close we'll be to Humphries Peak.

We invite Kat, Chelle, and Deeja over for dinner, and they're full of congratulatory hugs and kisses. Deeja looks a little shocked by the news, but the other two say they had a bet going--Chelle won. They take the girls out for some ice cream after dinner, giving Tim, Virginia, and me a chance to talk some more about wedding plans. Tim mentions that he's going to ask Frank to be his best man, which doesn't surprise me at all, but apparently his mom wasn't expecting it.

"Son, I know you're close to Frank, but I always thought you'd ask Jim to stand up for you. This isn't the kind of wedding I had pictured, but I still can't imagine anyone else as your best man."

"Who's Jim?" I ask, feeling out of the loop. I don't think I've ever heard Tim mention the name.

"My cousin," Tim answers flatly. "We were like brothers, growing up."

"I think you should call him," Virginia says encouragingly.

"He made it perfectly clear he wants nothing to do with me the last time we spoke." Tim's voice is bitter.

"He did call me when you were in the hospital, son--he still cares about you, and I hate to think you two can't get past your differences after everything that's happened."

"You don't get it, do you, Mom? It's everything that's happened that caused this. If I'd stayed the same person he grew up with, married some nice girl, had a couple kids, voted Republican, we'd still be close. But he can't handle who I am now--he wasn't thrilled when I became a Buddhist, but once I told him I was dating a man, that was it. Jim Bayliss does not associate with perverts, and as far as he's concerned, that's exactly what I am."

"Tim, jesus, I think he called once," I interrupt. "I talked to him."

"What are you talking about?"

"It was when you were getting the fixators off--I was half asleep, and you were out cold. This guy said he was your cousin and wanted to know if you were all right. I told him you were, but you were sleeping. I asked him his name, if he wanted to talk to you, but he said no, said not to wake you, told me he was sorry about everything, and hung up. The whole thing was weird. I fell asleep, and when I woke up, you needed my help with something, and I forgot to tell you."

"Even if that was him on the phone, he still didn't want to talk to me, did he? And he never called again. I'm happy with who I am, happier than I've ever been, and if that means not having Jim in my life anymore, that's fine by me." He's looking to me for confirmation, and I take his hand, give it a squeeze, and nod, so he'll know I support him.

"Don't try to tell me you don't miss him, son. I know he hurt you, but I think you could work things out if you would just talk. It's not the easiest thing in the world, accepting the fact that you're with a man--it takes time. Will you at least think about calling him?"

"Fine, Mom. I'll think about it. But I'm not making any promises. And Frank's going to be my best man."

It's a little uncomfortable for a minute--Tim's in stubborn mode, and Virginia and I both know it. Then the door opens to Ruth, Sarah, Chelle, and Kat, all giggling. Ruth tells us a story involving the ice cream they brought back for the agent guarding the house tonight, and we're back to normal, or as normal as it gets. I don't even realize Deeja's not with them anymore until they're getting ready to go, when Kat pulls me aside for a second and tells me she didn't even stay for the ice cream, just went off to a nearby bar.

"You're shitting me. That's fucked, Kat."

"Do you know what's going on with her? She talks to you more than she talks to us."

"No fucking clue. She doesn't talk about anything really personal, you know? We just shoot the shit, talk about movies, music, that kind of thing. She doesn't seem comfortable talking about anything else. Acts a little squirrely when I talk about Tim sometimes."

"So she hasn't mentioned anything like a boyfriend dumping her, or problems with her family?"

"Not a word. I haven't really noticed her with anyone, but didn't you say she had a boyfriend last fall, when Tim was in the hospital?"

"Yeah, but she broke up with him right after she joined the band, and she seemed fine. Shit, she seemed fine until we went on tour, you know?"

"Yeah." Chelle comes up behind us then, ready to leave. Kat gives me a look to let me know this is something we need to be thinking about, as if I hadn't realized that already. Yeah, her hormones are out of whack--Chelle isn't really worried about Deeja at all, thinks Kat's being too maternal--but I've been getting concerned over the last few road trips, and hearing about Deeja passing up ice cream with Ruth and Sarah... That's not like her.

Fuck.

Then Tim comes up behind me, kisses the back of my neck, and I stop thinking about anything but him.

****

"Hello?" The voice sounds the same as always--annoyed--and I smile to hear it.

"Hi, Frank, how are you?"

"Is that you, Tim? I'm fine."

"Good. That's good."

"Tim, what's going on?"

"Uh, I have some news. And a favor to ask."

"So ask."

"Bill and I are moving to Flagstaff."

"You're moving to Flagstaff," he says skeptically.

"Yeah, we're buying some land, right up in the mountains--it's so beautiful there, Frank. Have you ever been to Flagstaff?"

"Tim, the only time I've ever been in Arizona was last winter, and the only place I went was Phoenix."

"Well, you should see it. Um, actually, I was hoping you could come out here in a few months. In September."

"What's happening in Flagstaff in September that's so special?"

"Uh--I'm getting married."

"What?"

"Bill and I, we're getting married."

"Two men can't get married."

"Well, not legally, no. Call it a commitment ceremony if it makes you feel better, Frank. Jeez, sometimes the Catholic in you shows up when you least expect it, doesn't it?"

"You and Bill. You're getting--married--in September, in Flagstaff, Arizona."

"Uh-huh."

"So I suppose you expect me to fly out there for the wedding, bring Mary and the kids."

"Actually, I was hoping you'd be my best man."

"You want me to be your best man?"

"That's what I said, Frank. Do you have a problem with that?"

"A problem? No, no problem, Tim."

"Good. That's great. Because it would really mean a lot to me."

"I said I'd do it, Bayliss. But don't expect some sort of bachelor party."

"No, of course not."

"Okay then. Anything else you need to ask me?"

"Uh--no, that was pretty much it."

"Because I'm late for class. I'll put Mary on the phone, you can give her all the details I know you're dying to spill."

"All right, Frank. And thank you."

"You're welcome. Mary? Come talk to Tim, okay? Goodbye, Tim."

"Goodbye, Frank."

It's great talking plans with Mary. By the time I've gotten off the phone with her, Bill's up and eating breakfast. He smiles at me when I sit down next to him, resting my cane against the table. We've only been back in California for two days, and we don't even know for sure yet if we're going to get the land, but neither one of us is willing to wait. We've got an architect coming over this afternoon. We've set the date. Gloria, personal assistant extraordinaire, has already started looking into catering, tuxes, and everything else we might possibly need.  
I grin back at Bill, then bring his hand to my lips, kissing his ring finger.

"You talk to Frank?" he asks me, stroking my lips.

"Yeah. He'll be there, as long as I don't expect a bachelor party. Mary's more excited than he is, of course."

"He's more excited than he let on, I bet."

"Have you talked to John yet?" He shakes his head.

"He's out of town. I left a message--I think he's getting back sometime today."

"What about Billie?"

"Figured I'd tell her in person this weekend."

"You'll have to be fast to beat Ruth to the punch." He shakes his head again with a smile.

"Talked to Ruth already. She agreed to let me tell my own daughter I'm getting married, believe it or not."

He starts playing with the ring on my finger. "We're getting married," I say. "I'm marrying you. That's amazing. Isn't it?"

"Fuck no," he says softly. "It's just--right. The logical thing, if you will. Amazing part's that we actually met."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He lets go of my hand so he can reach behind my head, pulling me in for a soft kiss. He tastes of toothpaste and frosted flakes and coffee, and I take time to explore all of it. We kiss for a long moment, and then he breaks off and asks in a husky voice, "You going in to the office this morning?"

"Not for another couple hours."

"Good. Come on." He stands up, offers me a hand, and we walk back to the bedroom. He pulls at my shirt in the hallway until I take it off. He's just wearing sweats, so he's undressed and wrestling with my jeans before I've finished getting my socks off. Once he's gotten me stripped, he stands there for a minute, looking me over.

"You've filled out nicely," he says. "You've been working hard, eating your fucking wheaties."

"I have been working hard. I think I deserve a reward, don't you?"

"What did you have in mind?" He's moved closer, so we're almost touching, and I can feel the heat coming off his body, his breath on my face. I lean down, my lips just shy of his ear.

"Fuck me."

He takes a step forward, and I put my arms around him. He takes my shoulders and pushes me back towards the bed, then onto it. I let him. He follows me onto the bed, pinning me down beneath him, kissing me hungrily. He's impatient this morning, moving quickly down my neck to my chest, caressing my nipples with lips and tongue, reaching down to stroke my cock, fondling my balls, making me gasp. He looks up with a sly grin, so fucking sexy, then moves between my legs and takes me in his mouth. I gasp again, then moan loudly, glad Ruth and Sarah are off at school, glad Gwen won't be here to pick me up until noon. Then he takes me all the way in, jesus, and I'm making a lot of noise, because it feels so fucking good, and he's going to town, going all out, going for the gusto, and whatever other things he can do or go, not holding any damn thing back, working fast and furious to make me come and come hard. Which I do, grunting, deep into his throat, feeling the muscles work as he swallows every drop.

He releases my dick with a last soft kiss and leans back, glancing with evident satisfaction at the wiped-out, blissed-out expression on my face.

"So," he says, not even trying to hide his shit-eating grin, "was that good for you?"

I reach out and smack him. "What the fuck do you think, Fucking Deep Throat Rock Star?"

"My, my, such language," he chides, then grins again and adds, "Fucking Deep Throat Fucking Cocksucking Fucking Rock Star, that's me. Emphasis on the fucking." Then he's pushing me onto my belly, getting a pillow under my hips, and attacking my back with the same ferocity he used on the front, tongue and lips and teeth on my neck and shoulders, then down to my ass, one hand quickly lubed up and working fingers in while the other arm wraps around my waist. He's always gone so slowly, been so cautious, so afraid of hurting me, but maybe he's finally realized he can let go, the way he lets go when I'm fucking him, because he barely preps me before I feel his dick pressing up and into me, and before I know it he's in and thrusting and it feels fucking fantastic, and this time he's the one making the noise, or at least most of it, because now I'm moaning, getting hard again already.

He keeps going, hard and fast, but now he's grabbed my cock and started stroking it in counterpoint to his thrusts. I feel him tense up, then slam into me as he comes, and hearing his grunting in my ear, feeling him come inside me, thrusting a few more times, hitting that sweet spot, and continuing to stroke me, and I'm coming again, like a fucking teenager, all over his hand and the sheets. He's kissing the back of my neck, softer now, tenderly, then resting his forehead on my shoulder and wrapping both arms around my chest and belly, letting all his weight rest on me, letting go, relaxing as completely as he fucked me, and it feels so good to know he finally trusts himself, trusts us, so completely. And he stays there--doesn't get up to grab a washcloth, doesn't pull out, just stays there, with me and in me, as our breathing slows and our bodies stop shaking. I bring his hand up to my lips, kiss each finger, and he kisses the nape of my neck again, then rolls us onto our sides, still linked together.

"This okay?" he asks softly.

"I could stay like this forever, except I can't see your face."

He pulls out, and I turn to face him. I bring him into my arms, his head pillowed on my shoulder, looking up at me with those incredible eyes, and I kiss the scar on his eyebrow, and he smiles.

"Thank you, Bill."

"For what? I was enjoying myself, you know--you don't need to thank me."

"For enjoying yourself. For not being afraid to let go. For trusting yourself, and us."

He looks at me for a minute, then starts to smile. "Yeah," he says, nothing else, but I know he understands, so I kiss him.

"I trust you," he says. "I love you, Tim."

"I love you, and I trust you, and I'm going to marry you." He smiles again, full of joy, and I'm grinning back at him. He grabs me into a tight embrace, kissing my ear and holding me with all his wiry strength, and we stay like that for a minute or two, until Georgia jumps up onto the bed and meows loudly, and we both laugh, and Bill gets up and feeds her. He walks out into the hall, naked and unselfconscious and just beautiful.

****

After we get out of the shower, I'm doing the gel thing on my hair when the phone rings. Tim calls me over a second later, tells me it's for me.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Billy. It's John."

"Johnny! How are you, man? How's Celine?"

"We're fine. We're good. Celine--Celine's pregnant."

"That's great fucking news, John. When is she due?"

"February. February 14th, Valentine's Day."

"Congratulations to both of you."

"Yeah, we were out of town, celebrating. Sorry I missed your call."

"Hey, that's okay. Listen, I have some news, too. Tim and I are getting married."

"That's--that's wonderful, Billy. I'm glad you finally found someone."

"Yeah, I hit the fucking jackpot this time." I smile as Tim kisses my temple, then sits down next to me.

"Joe wouldn't have made you happy." John's voice is so open and familiar, always trying to speak the truth, no matter the cost to him or anyone else.

"No, he wouldn't." There's a pause in the conversation, but it's a comfortable one. We don't need to fill it. Then John speaks again.

"When is the wedding?"

"End of September. It's going to be in Arizona--we're moving to Flagstaff. And John, it would mean a lot to me, and to Tim, if you'd stand up for me--be my best man."

"You want me to be your best man?"

"Fuck yes, Johnny. Who else?"

"I'd be honored, Bill."

"Freak. Love you, Johnboy."

"Love you, freak. I'll see you in September, then."

A few days later, Billie arrives for the summer. I go to the airport alone to pick her up--I want some time together, just the two of us, to talk about what's been going on and what's to come. Her flight's delayed, which happens about half the time, and we decide to stop for dinner before heading home.

There's a Friendly's nearby, so that's where we go. As usual, she orders chicken fingers and fries. She looks at me a little funny when I order a grilled chicken salad--Tim's influence, I suppose. Which doesn't stop me from grabbing some of her fries.

We're waiting for our sundaes when I stop putting off the inevitable.

"Hey, lovebug, I want to talk to you about something."

"About Tim, right? And Sarah and Ruthie?"

"Yeah. Figured me out, huh?"

"Mom says you're not as complex as you pretend to be. And this _is_ the first time you've come to pick me up alone."

"Well, your mom's pretty smart, and so are you. Billie, what do you think of Tim? And don't tell me what you think you should--I want to know how you really feel."

"He's nice. I like him, really. And I know he makes you happy."

"But?"

"I used to make you happy." My heart fucking breaks.

"Billie, jesus, you will _always_ make me happy. The day I found out you were my daughter, that was the happiest day of my life. I love you, more than anything."

"As much as you love Tim? As much as you love Sarah and Ruth?"

"Lovebug, I couldn't love anyone more than I love you. Yes, I love Tim. I love him very, very much, like your mom and Evan love each other. And I love Sarah and Ruth--they've been through a lot, and they're great kids. And they love Tim, and me too, believe it or not. They're even pretty crazy about you." She looks unconvinced, so I give her hand a squeeze and look her in the eye with as much fucking love and sincerity as I can.

"Billie, when you first met me, I was this new person in your life, suddenly there, scared to death that you were going to hate me. All you knew about me was that your parents had fought in court to keep you away from me, and they lost. But you gave me a chance, got to know me, accepted me into your life. That couldn't have been easy for you to do, but you did it. So I guess I'm asking you to do it again."

She's looking down at her sundae, playing with the spoon. I wait for her to look up before I say anything else. I have to wait a few minutes, but she finally meets my eyes.

"Do you think you can do that? Give Tim and his kids a chance?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"People always have a choice, lovebug. But Tim and I are going to have a ceremony in September, like Chelle and Kat did a few years ago, remember? A wedding, to let everyone know how much we love each other, and that we plan on being together forever, like your mom and Evan. I'll be helping parent Sarah and Ruth. Tim and the girls are an important part of my life, so they're be part of yours, too. How much a part--well, that'll be up to you, at least a little bit, but I want you to remember that you let me in, let me love you. There are three more people at home who want to love you, just like I did. I'm asking you to give them a chance, even if it seems like you don't have me all to yourself anymore."

"I'll try, Daddy."

I reach over and ruffle her hair. "That's all I ask, kiddo. Now go on, eat up--we've got a traffic jam waiting with our name on it."

"How come you never take the limo when you come to pick me up?"

"Because that would be silly."

"But it would be fun!"

"Tell you what. We'll take it when it's time for you to go back to the airport, okay? Special treat, just for you."

"Okay."

We talk about our typical shit on the way back to the house--what she's been doing in school, how the band's doing, what she wants to do over summer vacation. She asks some questions about Tim and the girls, too, which I take as a positive sign.

The minute we walk in the door, Ruth bounds up and greets us with hugs. Billie smiles, hugs back, and lets Ruth to guide her over to the sofa, where Tim and Sarah are watching the Lakers. Billie goes right over to Tim and gives him a hug and a kiss, which she's done every time she's seen him, but I can tell she's thinking about what she's doing this time. I think, I hope, that this is going to work out, that Billie's going to be able to handle this additional complication in her life.

A couple weeks later, we're getting fitted for our tuxedos. Mark and Gloria have a surprise for us, though--they've got other shit for us to try on as well, suggested attire for the MTV Video Awards. Jenifur's gotten several nominations this year, and the label wants us there with bells on.

I know what to expect, but Tim's gaping at half the things they show us. He protests--says he's just going to be my date, surely he can just wear something more, well, understated. The "fashion advisor" the label sent along, a tiny, stunning woman somewhere between Betsy Johnson and a dominatrix, holds up a pair of black leather pants and tells him firmly to put them on, and Tim stares for a second, then starts laughing, accepts them, and heads off to try them on. She shouts after him to lose the boxers, and I start laughing as well.

I stop when he comes back out, though. He's still laughing, saying she forgot to give him a shirt. Maybe the rest of them are fooled, but I see the fucking glint in his eye and know he did it on purpose. He looks so fucking hot, dressed only in tight black leather, low on his hips, bare feet, leaning on his cane in a way that makes the pecs on that broad chest stand out. He catches my eye again and smiles, and I'm glad I'm back in my street clothes. I squirm a little, trying to adjust myself without giving my reaction to him away. He looks at me, then blushes, because what he's wearing doesn't hide a fucking thing, and he's just as ready to go as I am. He clears his throat, says he doesn't feel these are appropriate, that they chafe the scars on his leg, and besides, he prefers not to wear dead animal skins, and Betsy Dominatrix sighs and hands him another outfit to try on.

While he's in there, I pull Gloria over and tell her to have them delivered to the house, gift-wrapped, with a card from me. I scribble what I want it to say on a piece of paper; she reads it and laughs, then smiles at me and nods.

I don't even remember the rest of the afternoon--it passes in a blur of various blurs of outrageous colors, interspersed with men modeling tuxedo after tuxedo. Tim insists we need to pick out cut, style, colors, but must not try them on; he looks embarrassed when I ask why, and says he wants to be surprised. Fucking goofball.   
We're both at home, the girls at school, a few days later, when the box arrives. Yeah, I arranged it that way--do you blame me? I get a surprise myself, though--there are two boxes, and one's addressed to me. I open the card on the way back to the living room. It says, "I thought you should have matching pairs. Enjoy them, and congratulations. Gloria." I smile and put the second box on the hall table, then head back to Tim.

"This arrived for you," I tell him, holding back a smile. He accepts it curiously, pulling off the bow. He pulls the pants out first, grinning, then opens the card, reading it silently, then shaking his head and laughing. "What's it say?" I ask innocently.

"It says," he answers, still laughing, "'So, Detective, admit it--you've worn leather before, haven't you?'"

"Well, have you? I wouldn't have thought so, until I saw you in those the other day, but now I'm not so sure."

"Talk about deja vu," he murmurs, then heaves himself up and hobbles toward the hall closet, opening it and shuffling through a couple boxes on the top shelf. "Can you give me a hand here?"

"Sure," I say, moving under his shoulder so he can lean on me rather than his cane, freeing up both arms. He pulls down a box still taped up from the apartment in Baltimore, and the two of us get it back to the sofa. When we sit down again, he looks at it for a moment, then pulls me in for a quick embrace. His face is solemn now, and I wonder what the fuck is in the box.

"Did I ever tell you about the Angela Frandina case?" he asks finally.

"Angela Frandina. Was that the one with the old man, the really old case, that you gave to that dink Falsone?"

"No, that was Clara Sloan," he answers absently. "Angela was--years before that."

"Tell me," I say, taking his hand. When Tim wants to talk about a case, it's almost always some horrible fucking nightmare-inducing emotional landmine, but I always learn something new about what made him the man he is now. And then we have mind-blowing sex. So I'm good for listening.

"She was young, but not a kid--I think she was about twenty. I was finally getting a little confidence back after Adena, was in the regular rotation, solving cases, getting some confessions. Starting to get into a groove, with Frank, you know? So I caught this case, this young, beautiful woman, strangled to death with some sort of belt, and we start doing the interviews, trying to find out who she was, why someone would want her dead. And it turns out, she wasn't what she appeared to be. She worked in a leather shop, and she had another job, too, giving phone sex.

"One of her friends, who worked with her in the leather shop, let us know that she and Angela were into bondage. The friend--Tonya, I think that was her name--she looked a little like that stylist the other day, what did you call her, Betsy Dominatrix?"

I nod, and he starts messing with the tape, peeling it off the box in his hands. It takes another minute before he starts to talk again; by this point he's gotten all the tape off, but shows no sign of actually opening it.

"This was only a year or so after I started in homicide. I was--I'd never worked Vice, you know, only QRT, the security detail, and then homicide. I'd never even seen a dead body until I became a detective. By then I thought I knew a lot about how the world worked; I was still the rookie in the squadroom, but I was getting a little more respect. But I didn't know shit. I didn't let myself know shit. My repressions were fucking repressed."

He opens the top of the box, reaches inside, and slowly pulls out a very nice black leather biker jacket. "Tonya gave this to me after we put the case down. I didn't want to take it, but she--" he smiles wryly "--she insisted. Firmly. She tried to explain a little of why she did what she did, how putting herself in the control of another person made her free, and I didn't get it, wouldn't let myself get it. But I accepted the jacket, in the end, because Frank said I was either a liar or a moron if I didn't acknowledge the darkness inside me, and at least some part of me was aware enough to know he was right."

He pushes the box aside and absently strokes the jacket. "So, in answer to your question, Bill, yeah. I've worn leather before. Every once in awhile, in the years after Angela was killed, I'd put this on, go out to the Block, look around at the people and the places, the kind of clubs Angela and Tonya liked to go, the corners where hustlers of both sexes hung out, where I could go and try to figure out who I was."

"And did you? Figure out who you were?"

"Not really. I made some progress, here and there. It was when a street boy killed a gay man behind the Zodiac that I met Chris. Peter Fields, that was the killer's name. Frank and me, we had him in the box, and he wouldn't answer any questions until I admitted I liked his ass. Frank thought I just said it to get the guy to confess, but the thing is, this punk, this homophobic murderer who'd been killing johns all over the country, he saw something in me Frank never saw. Between admitting it to him and meeting Chris, that was enough to let me admit it to myself, that I was attracted to men."

He puts the jacket down and takes my hand. "It was when I met you, though, that I started to figure out who I was. Who I am."

"And who is that?" I ask softly.

"Your lover. Ruth and Sarah's father. A fucked up former cop with depressive tendencies and a bum leg. Bisexual. A Buddhist. Imperfect. Human. Happier than I've ever been in my entire life. Terrified sometimes that something's going to come along and take it all away."

"You're forgetting a few things," I tell him, kissing his knuckles.

"What?" he asks with a tender smile.

"Courageous. Beautiful. Fucking sexy. The strongest person I've ever met. Loved." I punctuate each phrase with a kiss, ending on his ring finger. "Loved so fucking much. Stuck with me forever."

"Not going anywhere. Jesus, Bill, love you so much."

"Enough to put aside your vegetarian beliefs long enough to model some leather for me?" I ask with a grin. "I'll model some for you."

He smiles and kisses me, then goes off into the bedroom with the pants _and_ the jacket. A few minutes later, having changed in the hall bathroom, I join him. And then, after I get him out of his leathers and he gets me out of mine, we have mind-blowing sex.


	2. Touch My Stump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Bill see the Hard Core Logo documentary.

Jenifur's gone on a short tour again, just a few dates in the northwest, and the kids are at school, so I'm alone one morning when the phone rings. I look over at the caller ID, expecting to see Bill's cell phone number, but instead it's a number I don't recognize, with a 416 area code. That's Toronto, I think, so I go ahead and pick up--it's probably an old friend of Bill's.

"Hello?"

"Uh, hello, is Billy there?" I don't recognize the voice.

"No, he's not. Can I take a message?"

"I guess you must be Tim Bayliss, then, huh? Listen, I don't know if he's going to want to talk to me, but this is Bruce McDonald, and it's important that he get in touch with me."

"What's this about, Mr. McDonald?" I sound like a police, which is fine by me.

"Call me Bruce. Fuck, I guess you know the whole story, right? Anyway, what you may not know is that the authorities up here finally saw fit to give me back the film a couple years ago--the last few reels, from that night in Edmonton. Technically, it's jointly owned by me, Festus, and Telefilm Canada. Festus and Telefilm both want to release it, but I'm not sure, even though I think it's the best fucking thing I've ever done."

"If you think destroying people's lives is entertainment, then I guess it would be."

"Shit, Tim, I know that's what you think, what Billy thinks, but the film--it doesn't pull any punches, you know. I'm shown up to be just the asshole I was. And I don't want to release the film unless it's okay with Billy."

"So, what, you're calling to get his permission? That's pretty much a wasted call, Bruce."

"Yeah, I know it probably is. Even if he has no intention of saying yes, though, I thought I should send him a copy. Let him see Joe Dick from a different fucking angle, one where it was pretty clear he'd been planning something like that for awhile. Billy--I think Joe was fucking desperate for a reason to keep going, and Billy was that reason for awhile, but even if the Jenifur deal hadn't happened, Joe was on the fucking path already. The reunion tour, the date in Toronto--that was all just a little detour. Watching all the footage helped me see that, and I think it might help Billy, too."

"You ever think it might just bring up some shit he doesn't need to deal with right now? I know you live in another country, but I assume you pay some attention to the news down here, and you had to have heard about the fucking bombs in Montgomery. The death threats we get every week, those haven't been publicized, but I assure you they're very much on our minds. Do you really think this is the best time to bring all this shit back up?"

"Fuck. Tim, I wasn't thinking about that--I apologize, but I already overnighted a copy of the film--it should get there tomorrow. Listen, why don't you give it a look yourself, see what you think--I'm sure you know him well enough to tell whether he'd be up for watching it himself. If you think it's a bad idea, that'll be it. Telefilm will be pissed, but there's nothing they can do without permission from me. And even if he's not ready now, maybe he'll be ready someday. Okay?"

"I'll think about it."

"Fair enough. Give me a call and let me know what you two decide. And Tim, I'm glad Billy found somebody; he deserves that."

The next morning, the videocassette arrives in a padded envelope. Fortunately, it doesn't come until Ruth and Sarah have gone off to school, so I don't have to explain what it is.

I should probably ask Bill before I watch it. I have no idea how he's going to react; fuck, I really have no idea what's in the film. Besides the obvious, that is--Joe Dick blowing his brains out.

Ten minutes after it arrives, I'm sitting on the sofa with the remote. An hour and a half later, I'm still sitting there, totally mesmerized, fucking blown away. From the opening frames, I'm sucked in to the world of Joe Dick and Hard Core Logo. I see what Bill meant that night at the Zodiac, about how charming Joe could be when he wanted, and how he fucked with everything, especially the people he cared about.

Up to this point I'd only seen still photos of him. Onscreen, he's an intriguing mixture of badass bravado, cutting honesty mixed with lies, and a certain hidden vulnerability when he looks at Bill. And what Bruce said is certainly true--Joe's holding on by the skin of his teeth, stubbornly devoted to his vision of the Joe and Billy show, sacrificing everything to get Bill back in his life.

And Bill's kind of oblivious to what's going on. Of course, there's a lot he doesn't see, stuff that McDonald filmed of Joe that's as raw and bleeding as both their faces after the fight. Did Bill ever realize the whole benefit story was just to get him back in the band, back to Joe? The look on Joe's face when he realizes he's gone too far, when Bill turns and walks out of the club, brings tears to my eyes. Should Bill see that look? How will he handle watching Joe toast Bruce and then shoot himself?

I hit the rewind button and watch it again. On first viewing, I watched Joe. This time, I watch Bill. Jesus, he looks so fucking young--he was 34, almost 35, but he could pass for 19 or 20 in some of the shots. Those are the shots where he looks vulnerable, fragile, even innocent. His actions are far from innocent sometimes, despite the fact that he spends much of the film just watching Joe.

I know, because he told me, that he planned to tell Joe about the Jenifur gig after the show, that he was planning on appearing with the Hard Cores in Toronto, figuring that he could continue playing in both bands. He started to forgive Joe for what he'd done in the past, started believing things might be different in the future. I know, because he told me, that he decided to walk out when Joe smashed the Strat, but even then he wasn't sure he might not come back. Bill was happy when they played the gig in Edmonton--he was feeling good, and he thought the fight with Joe was just the normal shit they pulled with each other. He thought Joe smashed the guitar because it had been Bucky's gift--that he did it out of jealousy; he couldn't believe Joe would do something so hurtful without talking to him first, and he left before he could do something he'd regret. I know that, because he told me.

The first night we spent together, Bill told me that he didn't want to be Billy Tallent anymore, that Billy Tallent was an asshole and a drunk who fucked over his best friend. Someone who watched this film without knowing him today might believe that. The Bill I know is still there, on film, but he's hidden behind the hardass Billy Tallent, hidden so well he's difficult to see at all. After watching the film a second time, I'm not sure I want anyone to see it. Yeah, it's clear Joe Dick was contemplating suicide long before that night in Edmonton--he has the gun in his fucking pocket the night he makes the deal with Bill to continue working together. I'm not altogether sure what else he might have intended to do with that gun. McDonald certainly bears a large part of the blame for how it all went down, but it's still Bill turning his back and walking out that seems to be the last blow.

I hit the eject button while the credits are running and get ready to put the tape away when I realize there's a note in the case. "Keep watching past the credits--not sure if I should include this in the final cut, but I wanted you to see it. --Bruce." I stick the tape back in and go back to the sofa.

There's no music, no titles to go with the footage that follows--it's just the raw film. There's a shot of Bill's face that goes with what was a voiceover to a shot of trees going past, when he was talking about meeting Joe, and the fact that he loved him more than anyone he's ever met, before or since. The look on his face is unmistakable--it's love: painful, raw, and overpowering. He's looking down, away from the camera, but then he hears Joe's voice and looks up as Joe comes over. He doesn't smile, but his eyes light up.

Then there's a cut, and we're outside. It's snowing pretty hard, and the camera's pretty far away from the action, but it's clear what's going on--Joe's funeral. There aren't many people there, but I recognize Pipe and John. Bill's got his back to the camera, but I know that back, even in a snowstorm, in an overcoat, yards away. They lower the coffin into the ground, and Bill falls to his knees in the snow. John comes over to him and helps him back up, holding him up, his sobs audible even across the distance. Then, offscreen, Bruce's voice says, "Fuck. Turn it off. I'm sick of being a fucking vampire." The screen goes black.

I wait for a minute, just in case there's more, but that's it. I hit the rewind button and turn off the TV. Ruth and Sarah get home soon after that, and I think they can tell something's bothering me--they pester me until I'll go outside with them, and Sarah tells funny stories about some of the rich kids at school and how clueless they are. I think they're looking forward to moving to Flag this summer.

We play frisbee--not easy for me, especially when Ruth's aim's not too great, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let this fucked up leg prevent me from playing with my kids. They understand--I think Sarah more than she lets on, because she starts making noises about homework and dinner after I fall down a couple times reaching for the disc. So we go inside and eat some pasta, then watch Mighty Mouse until it's time for Ruth to go to bed. Bill calls, and of course he picks up on the fact that I've got something on my mind. That's going to be a tough fucking conversation, and I'm shaking my head a little when I hang up.

"What's wrong, Dad? Did you have a fight with Bill?"

Shit. I forgot Sarah was still up.

"No, Mouse, we didn't have a fight. There's just something we have to talk about when he gets home."

"What do you have to talk about?"

"It's not really something I can tell you, sweetie--it has to do with Bill's past, and I have to talk to him about it. If it's okay with him, I'll tell you about it sometime, but not now, okay?"

"About when he was with Joe?"

"Yeah. And when Joe died."

"Oh. But if Bill says it's okay, you'll tell me about it?"

"Maybe not right away, but I'm sure he'll be ready to tell you sometime, Sarah. Did you get your biology and math done?"

"Yes, Dad, I got all my homework done, don't worry."

We talk some about what's been going on at school, watch a little more TV, and then she goes to bed. I leave the living room lights on for Bill, then go into the bedroom to read for awhile, try to stay awake until he gets home. Of course, I fall asleep.

****

Tim sounded weird on the phone. Said he was fine, just not sleeping well, missing me, the usual, but I pressed him on it, and he said we'd talk about it when I got home. I was silent for a sec, and I guess he realized how that sounded, because he made a point of telling me how much he loved me. I told him I was going to try to get a late flight back, and that hopefully I'd be home sometime tonight. "That would be great," he said, and told me he loved me again, that nothing was wrong.

I'm not surprised to find the lights on for me when the limo drops me off. He's asleep with the light on, a book in his hand, his glasses still on, but he wakes up when I sit down on the bed and take them off his face.

"Hey," I say as he opens his eyes.

"You're home," he says sleepily, pulling me close. I bury my face in his neck, inhaling his scent, and he kisses the back of my head. "Missed you," he mumbles into my hair. I rest a minute in his arms, loving the warm, solid feel of them around me, the firmness of his chest against mine, feeling the pulse in his neck against my cheek, reassuring myself that he's still here with me.

"Hey," he says softly after a few minutes. "You okay?"

I sit back a little, and he reaches out to stroke my face. He looks a little puzzled, a little concerned by what he sees, and I lean forward again to kiss him before I say anything. His lips meet mine as sweetly as they always do, and tension I wasn't even aware of melts away.

"I guess I was a little worried. You sounded strange on the phone, and then you said we'd talk when I got back, and I got paranoid."

"I'm not going anywhere, Bill. I'm here, until we're 104, remember? I love you."

"Those are my lines," I say with relief, then kiss him again. "Fuck, I love you so much it scares the shit out of me sometimes. So what the fuck is it that we need to talk about?"

"We got a phone call the other day. It was Bruce McDonald."

"What did that little cunt want?" It's amazing how his name can still bring back all that bitterness.

"Telefilm Canada wants to release the film. What with all the publicity you've gotten lately, and the compilation album deal, they're convinced it's a money maker. But Bruce won't do it unless it's okay with you."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"Bill--" he stops, unsure. "Listen, Joe's death, that was a huge fucking deal, right? You've told me more than once how much it affected you, how your life changed because of it. Is it so hard to believe that it might have affected Bruce, too?"

"Yeah, it's fucking hard to believe! Listen, you weren't there. You didn't see what I saw. He fucking told Joe I was leaving the band, Tim--do you get that?"

"I get that, Bill. I wasn't there, and you were. But Bruce saw some stuff that you didn't see, and it's in the film."

"Wait a minute. How the fuck do you know what's in the film, Timothy?" I'm not liking what I'm thinking.

"He sent us a copy, and I watched it." He knows how pissed I am, but his voice is calm and firm. "It's good, compelling, actually, and I think it's pretty honest and fair. I don't know if it should be released to the public, but I think you should see it."

"You think I should _see_ it? You think I should watch Joe blow his fucking _brains_ out, live and in color? What the fuck is with you, Tim?" I'm not yelling--the kids are asleep--but my voice is harsh and angry, and I'm getting in his face. He flinches a little, but then he just grabs me firmly by the shoulders and fucking looks at me with sympathy, compassion, and love, which pisses me off even more. I pull away, get up, grab a smoke, walk around the room a little.

He sighs, then tries again. "Bill, if you don't want to see it, that's fine. Maybe you'll want to in the future. I can't make that decision for you, and I don't want to. I just know that watching it showed me some stuff that I didn't expect, and maybe it would for you as well. Facing up to what I did to Ryland has been really rough, but I think it's been good for me, and maybe dealing with Joe and the movie would be good for you."

He grabs his cane from the side of the bed and comes over to where I'm standing. I glare at him, but of course it doesn't work for shit. He's so fucking zen about this that I want to punch him. He's smart enough not to get too close, but he wants me to know he's there, he's not leaving just because I'm wigging out on him. Unlike Joe, he's not going to automatically take it to the next level, try to fuck with me. He's just there.

After I've smoked a couple cigarettes and ranted a little more, and he's just stayed there, being all fucking calm and loving and compassionate, I get a little less infuriated with him and Bruce and the whole fucking world. And Joe. I sigh and go to drop my butts in the toilet, since we don't keep ashtrays in the bedroom anymore. I stay in the bathroom for a minute, brush my teeth, get it back together. Then I go back. He's still standing there, waiting for me.

"You shouldn't have watched it without talking to me first." I manage a relatively calm voice this time.

"I thought about that. I could say it was just because I thought I should see it before I could decide whether you should see it, but truth is I was curious. I wanted to see what you were like back then, to see what Joe was like, and I thought you might say no if I waited until you got back and asked you. I'm sorry I didn't ask you first, but I'm not sorry I watched it. I want to know everything about you, and I'm not about to apologize for that, Mr. Talking, No Holding Back." There's a little bite in his voice now, which I'm glad to hear. He's trusting me not to flip out on him anymore. Besides, all that zen calmness is really fucking annoying.

"What did you think?" I surprise myself by asking.

"About Joe?"

"And me, yeah."

"He loved you, and he was fucked up and suicidal before you ever got on that plane to Vancouver. He was going to kill himself, one way or another, at some point soon, and there's nothing you could have done to stop it. If you hadn't come up for the benefit, he'd have killed himself then. If the Jenifur deal hadn't happened, he'd have killed himself a little later, but he still would have done it."

"Is that your professional opinion, Detective?" I ask him sarcastically, but he answers me perfectly seriously.

"Yeah, Bill, it is. Being in homicide exposes you to a lot of suicides. Being any kind of cop gets you training in recognizing the signs, at least in other people." That last bit is said with wry self-deprecation, and I see a brief smile cross his features.

"What about me?" I ask again.

"You were pretty fucked up, too. I think you were still trying to get back at Joe for what he'd done to you over the years, and for the rape, but you loved him, and you didn't know everything you needed to know."

"You mean about Bucky's legs? I never figured out exactly why he made that all up. It cost him his friendship with Bucky, and that was really fucking important to him."

"He told Bruce it was the only way he could get you to come back."

"He said that?" As soon as I hear it, I know it's got to be true; it's fucking obvious, and I wonder why I never figured it out before.

"At Bucky's farm."

I wander back over to the bed and sit down. He sits down next to me, still careful not to touch me outright, but I can feel his leg and hip along mine. His hand is palm up and open on his thigh, and I take it in mine. He sighs, in relief, I think, and rubs his thumb over my knuckles.

"I love you, Bill. If you want to just throw the tape away, we will."

"No, don't throw it away."

He looks at me and nods. "All right." Then he strokes my cheek and leans in to kiss me softly. I deepen the kiss, suddenly needing the contact, pulling him close and pressing his mouth open with my tongue. He responds instantly, pushing me onto my back and laying over me, hands working at my waistband, his cane dropping onto the floor beside the bed. He's just got on sweats and a t shirt, so it's easy to strip him down, and within a minute we're skin to skin, gasping at the sensation, even though it's only been a few days. He rolls us onto our sides, his hands on my ass, and I need him fucking _in_ me, so I pull back, turn on my other side, reach into the drawer and hand him the lube.

He preps me quickly and thoroughly, leaving me breathless as he strokes those long fingers up and into me while he uses his tongue, lips, teeth, and other hand on the rest of my body. Then he slowly pushes into me, the two of us moaning in two part harmony. One arm's tight around my waist, the other pumping my cock as he moves in me, hitting that sweet spot, belly and balls up against my ass. His face is pressed up against mine, and I turn my head a little so that our tongues can meet at the corner of our mouths. I reach one hand down to my stomach, the other to join his on my cock, and he slams into me as he comes, tightening his grip. That and the noises he's making are all I need to spill over our hands.

He kisses my neck as I finish, and after we get cleaned up and under the covers, he asks me if I'm all right.

"Yeah," I answer. "Love you, missed you, want to sleep with you now, okay?" I spoon around him and nuzzle the nape of his neck for emphasis. He kisses my knuckles, one by one, and then we drift off to sleep.

I wake up when he gets up to meditate. He gives me a quick kiss and tells me to go back to sleep, so, being the putz I am, I move over to his side of the bed and go to sleep on his pillow. Eventually I wake up again, and after pissing and cleaning up a little, I head out to the kitchen. He's out back, reading the paper. Coffee's on, and he's got cereal and milk waiting for me on the table outside.

He looks up and smiles when he sees me coming.

"Sleep well?"

"Yeah--you?" I give him a kiss before I sit down to breakfast.

"No nightmares, woke up feeling rested. Watched you sleeping for awhile."

"Freak."

"Eat your lunch--oops, I mean breakfast, of course."

"Shut up, zen boy. Girls get off to school okay?"

He nods. "They missed you this morning, but I told them you'd gotten in late and needed to sleep."

"Thanks. I missed them, too."

I stand up after I finish eating. "Okay," I say. He puts down the paper and looks at me. "Come on," I add. He nods slowly and follows me back inside.

There's a black plastic tape case on top of the vcr. My hands aren't even shaking as I take the tape out and put it in. Tim hands me the remote and sits down next to me. "You sure?" he asks, putting his arm around me.

"Fuck no, but let's do it anyway," I answer, turning the TV on and hitting play. I lean into the comfort of his body next to me. I sure as shit couldn't do this without him here.

I try to maintain some distance, watch like I'm watching an independent film, which of course I am, but that only lasts through the opening credits, when I'm wondering why the fuck McDonald got someone to read them in German. The second Joe's onscreen, swearing and smoking and fucking farting, Johnny there behind him, any distance goes out the fucking window. The scenes fly by in a blur, certain images crystal clear and fucking sharp: Joe's face in the truck on the way to the Commodore, silent and troubled. The way that it looks like he just kissed my cheek when we started to play, like he kissed John's, when I know that kiss was aimed at the corner of my mouth. My obvious embarrassment when he takes over the interview and tells the journalist to fuck off. Shit, Mary's face when John tells her about the rape.

I didn't know Bruce filmed the discussion Joe and I had in Saskatoon. I'm watching the conversation when Tim asks me for the remote. I hand it over to him, wondering what's going on. He backs the tape up a minute, to where I have my back turned, and advances slowly, frame by frame. I don't see it until he backs up again and points it out--Joe transferring a gun from one pocket to another. I sit back in shock, the image frozen on the screen.

"Jesus fuck," I finally say. Tim nods, looking at me intently.

"I've watched it a few times now," he says, "and I think he wasn't just considering shooting himself."

"What are you saying?"

"He had his hand in his pocket, Bill. His right hand. He didn't move the gun to his left until he was pretty sure you were going to stay with him."

"You trying to tell me he was going to fucking _shoot_ me if I didn't agree with him? That's fucking nuts, Tim!"

"He was strung out on coke and booze, and suicidal to boot."

"You're sure about this?"

"No, not completely. But my gut tells me he was at least thinking about it." He hands me the remote, and I sit there for a second before I hit play again.

The rest of it is almost impossible to watch--Pipe reading John's journal, fuck, John burning it on the back porch, tears in his eyes. The complete asshole I am to that kid Terry during the interview, and how I say nothing to Joe. The camera lingering on Joe's face after Bruce asks him how he feels about me leaving the band makes me turn away for a minute. Tim pauses the tape and puts his arms around me and just holds me until I'm ready to watch the rest.

The rest. There's not much more--clips from the concert, me getting off on how pissed Joe is, but not knowing why. Having a fucking ball, figuring it was just the old Joe and Billy schtick. Fuck, even after he hit me I didn't realize--didn't figure out what Bruce had done until after I walked out the door. Thought he was just fucking jealous of the Strat, pissed about losing Bucky's friendship.

Joe, holding up a bottle and two glasses, completely devastated, as I turn my back on him and walk out. Joe, still holding two glasses while he sits on the steps a couple hours later, dropping one glass, walking away, walking back, asking Bruce if he had a good time, if he got _everything he needed_. I know what's coming--I've read the transcripts that were all over the papers--but it's so quick it still surprises me. "One shot and then salut." Jesus.

The credits start. There's a brief blurb about each of us, what we're doing now, and once that's past I reach for the remote again, but Tim puts his hand on my arm and tells me to wait. He fast forwards past the rest of the credits. Then it's my face on the screen, talking about Joe, about how much I love him. Then, then it's the funeral. I didn't even know Bruce was there, but he must have been hiding out behind a fucking tombstone or something, filming us gathered around the grave that should have been the last resting place of Joseph Mulgrew. Funny, I don't even remember falling to my knees like that--just remember Johnny holding onto me while I fell apart. Bruce's voice, what he says, is another shock, and then it's finally over. Tim turns the TV off, hits the rewind button.

I feel his hand on my face, stroking away my tears. I look up and see he's been crying, too. That hits me fucking hard for some reason, and suddenly he's the one holding onto me while I fucking sob over Joe Dick one more fucking time, wondering if I'm ever gonna be done grieving.

I've really lost it, making a lot of noise, enough that I wonder if I'm scaring Tim, but he's murmuring something in my ear, that he's so sorry. For a minute his vowels seem to change, to lengthen, and I can almost hear Joe's voice, apologizing for real this time, and I remember he told me he loved me. He couldn't apologize, but he did tell me he loved me before he died. And maybe that was all the apology he could give me--that, and the kiss onstage, the only time he ever kissed me.

My breathing's starting to come back to normal, and I can feel Tim's hand moving gently up and down my back, the other one stroking my face and hair. I relax into his arms, listening to his heart beat, steady and strong.

"Don't you ever fucking leave me," I say into his chest.

"I won't. I love you."

"Joe loved me."

"He did love you. But I'm not Joe."

"Thank fucking god."

"It wasn't your fault, Bill. He could have talked to you before the concert, but he didn't. He was just waiting for an excuse to speed up his self-destruction."

"Maybe."

"Fuck maybe. If nothing else, he would have died of cirrhosis or an overdose before he ever would have made it to lung cancer, and he knew it. What's that he said at Bucky's farm? 'Just feeding the legend, baby.' Shooting himself got a lot more attention than if he'd died of organ failure at the age of 50."

"You've got a point there, Detective," I say, smiling despite myself. His arms tighten around me and he kisses the back of my head.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Want to talk about it?"

"I'm not sure."

"Okay. I'm just gonna hang onto you for awhile, then."

I squirm around a bit on the couch until I get in a more comfortable position. I end up leaning against Tim's chest, my head tilted back onto his shoulder, his arms around my chest, his legs tangled up with mine, stretched out in front of us. I feel a kiss on my temple, and I lean my head back until I can see that face looking down on me, fucking beautiful man, even upside down and kind of sideways, eyes red, grey-shot hair in need of a trim.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. I know he's said those words hundreds of times before, to hundreds of families and friends of murder victims. You'd think maybe they'd sound canned or rehearsed, but they don't, because he means them as much as he did the first time, when he told the Watson family about Adena.

"I love you. More than I loved Joe."

"I know."

"You would." We're quiet for a few minutes, content. Then I have to ask him a question that proves just how much of a putz I am.

"What did you think of the band?"

He laughs. "I've never been much of a punk fan, but I have to admit I was very impressed, especially with the guitarist."

"That would be Billy Tallent."

"That's the one. Quite the musician, and truly fucking hot to boot, even if he was a bit of an asshole."

"Goes with the territory. Lucky for you I've mellowed in my old age."

"Lucky for you I've gotten tougher."

"What are you talking about? You're a wuss, Secret Agent Man."

"And you're a putz, Rock Star."

"So you thought I was hot?"

"I always think you're hot." I can feel the vibration of his laugh where my back's pressed up against his chest. "Jesus, Bill, you fucking seduced the camera every time you were onscreen, even when you were falling down drunk. Joe, he had charisma in fucking spades, no question, but you--you can 'touch my stump' anytime, 'Anal Man.'"

That surprises a laugh out of me. His arms tighten around me again, and he starts kissing my neck. I can feel his stump, all right, no missing that, so I touch it. Then we go back to the bedroom and I touch it some more.


	3. Rehearsal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding rehearsals are the bomb.

The summer passes fucking fast, and before I know it, it's the beginning of September. Things are going well with the house, but it's still going to be tight getting it finished in time for the wedding. It doesn't help that Tim's like a kid in a candy store every time we have to make a decision, either about the house or the wedding--he wants everything, thinks everything's a great idea, has no ability to cut to the fucking chase and make up his mind.

So I end up making most of the final decisions, but it works out okay, because he ends up happy with whatever I pick. There are things he insists on, though--state of the art security system, the most environmentally correct materials, passive solar heating, shit like that. So our wood floors are recycled from a warehouse, the house has a steel frame, and we'll be composting whatever we can, which Tim will definitely be in charge of. I don't even understand all the security stuff we've got, which is somehow run by a computer program, which has a back-up generator for any power outages--whatthefuckever. Tim says it'll be simple to operate and very safe, and he's the expert.

The architect is fucking amazing--she manages to get all of Tim's requirements met in a design that's beautiful, spacious, full of light, functional, and basically just fucking perfect. I never dreamed I could live in a house like this; combine that with Tim and the kids--I'm blown away every time I think about it.

The studio, which is a separate building, is also perfect; Chelle, Kat, and Deeja had a hand in its design, and they insisted on picking up three quarters of the cost between the three of them. They say there's no reason for us to ever record anywhere else.

Ruth, Sarah, and Billie all met with the architect as well, and had considerable input in the design of their rooms, which are upstairs, along with a couple guest rooms. The master suite is at the back of the house, with a large bank of windows facing the mountains and no stairs for Tim to climb. There's a small deck off the bedroom where he can eat his breakfast in the summers, and a larger deck off the living room. There's a meditation room between the living room and the bedroom, with another view of the mountains.

Ruth and Tim worked together with a separate architect on the pool, or pools, really. The guy had been on some cable show on HGTV or something, and you can see why. There's an outdoor pool for the summers, with what they call an "infinity edge" that looks out over the mountains, an indoor/outdoor lap pool for Tim downstairs, and a jacuzzi on the deck. There's also a water slide accessible from the upstairs deck, off the girls' rooms, which was Ruth's suggestion. The water's filtered and cleaned by some environmentally friendly, ozone, non-chlorine system, so there'll be no stink, and it won't be too harsh on Tim's scars. It's all pretty impressive, and it'll be good exercise for Tim. If it means I get to see him in swim trunks more often, well, I just consider that an added bonus.

Chris Rawls made some suggestions about the kitchen, which Sarah's happy about--she announced last week that she's going to be a chef. Tim's doubtful, but for now we're enjoying her cooking, always wonderful, but less simple now--she emails Chris all the time about new recipe ideas. She still makes Tim macaroni and cheese about once a week, though.

Chris and Hiroshi will be coming out for the wedding, along with a whole contingent of Baltimore cops and Bayliss relatives. There won't be nearly as many people coming from LA--Mark, Gwen, Gloria, Deeja, Chelle and Kat, who assure me their midwife okayed the trip. Alicia and Karen will be there, too. From Canada, Mary, Evan, and Billie will be there, and John's standing up for me. Mulligan's coming, and I actually managed to find Pipe and invite him, although I'm far from sure he'll actually show up. And a few folks will be coming from Phoenix--Marilyn, Cheryl, Lisa, Dr. Taggert. It'll be good to see them again, and great for them to see how much progress Tim has made.

Detective Angst got on a predictable guilt trip when we were making up the guest list. I think I finally convinced him I don't give a shit that three quarters of the people coming to the wedding are friends and relatives of his. The people I care about will be there, and that's all that matters.

He's such a fucking goofball. He won't let me see him in his tux, and he's insisting that we spend the night before the wedding apart. It's not that he really believes in any of the traditional wedding superstitions--he's just into the ritual, the tradition, wants as many of the trappings as he can get into what is, after all, a totally non-traditional wedding.

One thing he is completely serious about is security. There's fencing all along the road in to the house, and a security gate at the end of the road. The FBI, Arizona State Troopers, and US Park Rangers will all be a presence at the wedding. The fencing doesn't surround the whole property--can't fence the wildlife in or out--but there aren't any trails that lead in to our property, no direct access except for the road. It'll be a hell of a lot safer than living in fucking Beverly Hills.

The security system was installed before practically anything else, so even though there's still some detail work to be done, we end up moving in a few weeks early. Tim says it'll give us time to figure out any problems before the wedding, and I'm good with that. Plus the girls get a chance to familiarize themselves with the town and the routine before school starts.

There haven't been any death threats for a couple months now, and that's got us almost more on edge than when they were coming every couple weeks. We know there are members of Eisen's church who have been paroled or gotten off, and we're both waiting for the other shoe to drop. It's a bit of a relief knowing there will be dozens of cops and a few FBI agents among the guests at the wedding. We've got enough on our minds, just with the house and the wedding plans. We're due a break.

Of course, it's just when you think everything's okay that the shit really hits the fucking fan.

****

A few folks are coming out early--my mom, of course; John, Celine, Frank, and Mary; Gordon, Danny, and Eli; Billie's been with us all summer. Mary and Evan won't get here until the day of the wedding. Kat, Chelle, and Deeja come out as well for sort of a rehearsal dinner the week before. We decide on a new restaurant in Sedona that Chris recommended--one of his classmates at whatever chef school he went to owns it. We've got the back room reserved, so after we show everyone the house--still needing a few finishing touches, but it should be done by the end of the week--we head south.

Frank and Mary are in the jeep with us, Ruth, and Billie, and Sarah's in with Eli, Gordon, and Danny. Olivia and Frankie stayed home in Baltimore, but they'll be coming out in a few days. Sarah's got quite a crush on Eli, but he's pretty oblivious--still thinks of her as a kid sister type, I guess. That might change when he sees her in her dress--she's definitely growing up, and she looks beautiful, no matter what she's wearing. After years of wearing nothing but the modest dresses that were expected in Church Canyon, she pretty much lives in jeans and t shirts these days, her favorites sporting logos from Bill's two bands. He hasn't said anything, but I see the way he smiles when she and Ruth borrow his old Hard Core Logo shirts.

The drive passes pleasantly enough, Mary and I chatting about the scenery along the way. She and Frank are taking their kids to the Grand Canyon the day before the wedding, so we spend some time talking about the girls' recent trip down the Colorado, which we managed to reschedule for the week Bill and I moved to the new house. Frank's quiet most of the way, only holding forth rarely, and so is Bill, although I catch him looking at me and smiling every so often.

We have a good time during dinner. No one orders anything alcoholic, in deference to Bill, except for Deeja. She's the only sore spot--Bill and Kat are planning on talking to her after dinner about her drinking, which is steadily getting worse. They've had a couple talks with her already over the last month or so, but apparently made no impression. By the time we're ordering dessert, she's totally smashed, and she goes outside to smoke after ordering an Irish coffee. Bill gets up to go with her, but Chelle motions him back down and goes out herself. She comes in by herself a few minutes later, looking even more worried, but doesn't say anything, just exchanges looks with her fellow band mates. Bill gestures with those long fingers of his, and I know they'll all be talking about the conversation later, but have decided as a group to focus on the celebration.

We're finished with dessert by the time she comes back, carrying a wedding gift, which she adds to the pile already on a table in the corner. Then she comes over and gives Bill a sloppy kiss and tells us she has to leave.

"You're not driving, Deeja--" say half the people in the room.

"Don't worry, I got a fucking cab, okay? Enjoy the rest of your evening." With that she walks out the door, ignoring the pained expressions and even outright anger on some faces.

"What is going on with her?" Bill asks indignantly, and I can tell how hard he's working to keep his vocabulary under control in deference to the kids. "Chelle, you talked to her--what did she say?"

"Do you really want to get into this now?" she asks quietly.

"We can't ignore it any more. She's an accident waiting to happen, and if we care about her, which we do, we need to let her know that."

"Billy--" Kat starts, then pauses, with a wretched look on her face. Suddenly I think I understand what's going on, and my mouth opens in surprise.

"Bill, let's deal with this later, all right?" I ask him. "This is our party, and besides, we need to respect her privacy." He gives me a hard look, and he must see something in my eyes, because he sighs, then nods.  
Celine, bless her, gets up and heads over to the gifts, asking for help bringing them to us. Before long, Ruth and Billie are wearing the cowboy hats John and Celine got us, giggling. Danny and Gordon are standing next to them when Ruth picks up the gift Deeja left on the table.

But Deeja's name was on the card with Kat and Chelle--she contributed to the handmade quilt they got us. Why did she bring another gift? Bill's frowning a little, probably wondering the same thing. And the wrapping's different--this one's hand-wrapped, not done to perfection by some professional. Dan catches our expressions and moves to take the gift from Ruth, and Gordon comes up and looks over his shoulder.

"There's no card on this one," Danny says, and my heart's in my throat.

"Billie, Ruth, come over here, okay?" I say, struggling to stand up, trying not to let the panic into my voice. Bill hears it, though, figures out what I'm thinking, and he quickly gestures the girls over, tries to unobtrusively round them and Kat towards the door.

"Chelle, would you get Agent Stefanski in here? Frank, call in the squad, okay?" I ask. "And get everyone out. Everyone, please leave the room. Go on, get going, now. Mom, go, please." Frank gets it, starts ushering people out, then heads into the hallway.

"What is it, Tim?" Gordon asks. He's got one arm around Danny, and they're both looking at me like I'm nuts.

"Danny, listen to me," I say, speaking slowly and carefully. "This is important. I want you to put the package back on the table, as gently as you can, and then move--"

That's all I manage to get out before it explodes.

****

I've got my back to the table, trying to hurry everyone the fuck out of the room, at the back of the pack, because I'm not leaving without Tim. I'm listening to his voice when I'm knocked flat, landing on top of Billie, managing to get my hands out first so that I don't crush her. I'm dazed for a couple seconds, ears ringing from the noise, but then I shake it off and check on Billie. She's crying, really scared, but she shakes her head when I ask her if she's hurt. I check her over, just to be sure, but there's not a scratch on her. She points to my face and I realize I've got a couple cuts on the back and side of my head, and a couple scratches on my arms. They sting a little, but they're nothing serious.

Then I turn around and look behind me. Jesus fuck. Tim's on his back on the floor. His eyes are closed, probably knocked out from the blast, bleeding from some cuts, but I can see him breathing. Please let him just have a little concussion. Gordon and Danny--fuck, oh fuck. Danny's face is blown off, along with most of the front of him. His body must have sheltered Gordon a little, but not enough--one of his arms is laying off to the side, and his throat's been cut wide open. There's blood fucking _everywhere_, worse than that night up in the Canyon, and I never thought I'd see worse than that. I push Billie back behind me, and Chelle, paler than I've ever seen her, takes her by the hand and leads her out the door.

Frank and Agent Stefanski have called the medics and the bomb squad, in case there are more bombs somewhere, and I realize I'm still standing there, and Tim's still on the floor, and I stumble over to him and kneel down next to him just in time to see him open his eyes. He immediately brings his hand up to my face and says my name.

"Hey, are you okay?" I ask, my voice shaking with relief.

"My head hurts, and my leg, but I don't think anything's broken. Are the girls--"

"They're fine. And so am I," I add as he looks worriedly at the blood on his fingers.

"Danny? And Gordon?"

I shake my head slowly, and tears come to his eyes. I put my head down on his chest and he puts his arms around me. Then I hear Sarah's voice.

"Dad? Bill, is he okay?"

I sit back up and try to smile at her. "He's fine, sweetie. Just got a little banged up, that's all."

"Sarah, I don't want Ruthie in here, you understand?" Tim tells her. "She doesn't need to see this. I'm going to be fine, and I'm glad you two are both safe and sound, but not everyone was as lucky as we were--" his voice breaks, and I get up, blocking her view of the carnage behind me.

"Your father's right, Sarah. Can we put you in charge of Ruth and Billie? Make sure they know we're okay, and we love them, and that we'll be with them soon--we're going to get Tim to the hospital, make sure he's okay, and I'm sure someone will drive you there."

Sarah nods, resolute. "I'll take care of them, Bill. What about--are Gordon and Danny--"

"I'm not sure, Mouse--let's wait for the paramedics, okay?" I say as gently as I can. She nods again, tears in her eyes, but staying strong for her family, and I pull her into a hug. She kisses my cheek, then gets down on the floor and does the same to Tim. I can see her glance over at the bodies; her face pales, but she doesn't say anything. He tells her he loves her and that he'll see them all soon, and that he feels fine, the trip to the hospital will just be to see if he needs any stitches.

"Bill, you take good care of my dad, okay? I know you know how to do that," she says with a ghost of a smile. I promise I will. Then the paramedics arrive and start to work on getting Tim onto a backboard and a stretcher, and loading Gordon and Danny up as well, covering them with sheets. The bomb squad makes me leave the room, and Tim and his entourage of EMTs come out a moment later. He makes them stop so he can see for himself that Ruth and Billie are all right, and I take the opportunity for a couple more hugs before we get into the ambulance and head to the ER. I grab Chelle and ask if she'll bring the girls over to the hospital, and she says she will, that she wants to get Kat checked out anyway.

"Fuck, Chelle, is she okay?"

"Yeah, just got pushed into the wall and bumped her belly kinda hard. She doesn't want to go, but I insisted."

"Tim didn't want to go either." She gives me an understanding glance and gestures for me to follow Tim out the door to the ambulance. "Hey, Chelle? Find Deeja, okay?" I tell her as I leave. "The cops are gonna want to talk to her."

"Shit, you're right. We'll find her--go on, get out of here."

They insist on separating us once we get to the hospital--they need to take Tim to radiology, and they want to check, clean, and dress every stupid fucking scratch on me. Just one, on the back of my head, is big enough for stitches. By the time they're finished with me, Tim's back from radiology, and he's sitting up, off the fucking backboard and out of the cervical collar. I come over and sit by him while they go through the same routine with him. He gets stitches a few more places than I did, and there will be a couple small scars to join the old ones on his chest, but other than a mild concussion and some bruises he's fine.

I'm holding his hand when Frank walks up. He nods at me, asks how Tim's doing, and then gives us the latest news.

"Gordon and Dan were killed instantly--ME said they didn't suffer. They found another bomb in the kitchen--apparently the killer didn't have a chance to get it into the room. The feds are questioning Deeja now."

"Is she okay?" I ask.

"She's drunk." All the arrogance of the mighty fucking Pembleton goes into those two words, but for once I don't mind. "I don't think she quite realizes what happened yet, but apparently some kid on the street came up to her, said he was a Jenifur fan, and gave her the package, asked her to give it to you two." Frank's voice is harsh and judging, and I wonder if he finds my band mates and me somehow responsible. I'm about to give him a piece of my mind when Tim puts his hand on my arm and shakes his head.

"Tim, what the fuck kind of _federal agent_ doesn't think to check the package she brings in?" Pembleton asks, gesturing wildly. "Who is this Stefanski, and what the hell was he thinking? Why was he even there, if he's not gonna do his damned job?"

"I don't know, Frank, but believe me, I'm not letting this go. This is by no means the first time the agents assigned to us have fucked up, and it's not going to happen again. Jesus, Gordon and Danny are dead, they're _dead_, and we're damned lucky they were the only ones--" he turns away, squeezing my hand tightly. He wipes his eyes quickly, then adds, "I'm getting Bartlett on the phone as soon as we get out of here."

Chelle comes up to us, still looking a little pale, followed by Ruth and Sarah. Ruth immediately sits down on the gurney next to Tim, who gives both of them a long hug. I can hear Ruth start sobbing, so I draw Chelle off to the side to give them some privacy.

"How are Kat and the baby?" I ask Chelle.

"She's a little shaken up--shit, I think we all are--but they did an ultrasound and everything looks fine. The placenta's okay, and she's not having any contractions. Billie wanted me to let you know she's with Virginia and Eli at the FBI office--they're questioning everyone, so we'll all have to go over there after we're done here."

I nod, then look at her more closely. Fuck, she's shaking like a leaf. I put my arm around her and guide her over to a chair, and then she starts crying.

"Jesus, Billy, what the fuck was that? Those boys, they were so fucking sweet, and now they're dead, and all I can think of is how grateful I am that Kat's okay. How many of those fucking psychos are out there, trying to kill you and Tim? When are we ever going to feel safe again?"

I don't have a fucking clue what to say to that, so I just hold onto her and let her cry, wondering if I should just quit, go solo or something, so that at least the rest of them will be safe. I sure as shit don't want to do that, but maybe I'll have to. God, I want a fucking drink.

Finally she calms down, sits up, blows her nose, and it occurs to me I've never seen her cry before. I guess I'm not the only one trying to keep up a hardass image. She's looking a little embarrassed, so I tease her a little, tell her to get her fucking self together before someone sees her. She smiles and tells me to fuck off, so I know she's okay.

Tim's got Sarah and Ruth calmed down, although they both get a little teary eyed again when they see me, and they grab on pretty tightly when they give me a hug. Not that I mind. Yeah, I'm a putz where they're concerned, too. Thank fucking god all three girls are okay.

They've finished up on Tim, so after some instruction on waking him up every couple hours, they send us on our way. There's an FBI agent and a Arizona State Trooper who've been watching us like hawks, or rather watching everyone else around us like hawks, and they direct us carefully through each hallway and door and into the trooper's car for the ride back to the house--they're checking all our vehicles for tampering and car bombs. Fucking car bombs, jesus.

Tim's pretty sore; he makes no objection to riding in a wheelchair out to the car. Once we're in the back of the cruiser, he collapses into my arms, shaking with silent tears. I stroke his back, murmur reassurance, kiss the top of his head, and let a few tears of my own fall into his hair.

A few hours ago the only thing I was worried about was whether everything would be done at the house in time for the wedding. Now Gordon and Dan are dead, and I'm fucking relieved that the security system was the first thing installed once the walls were up. And I'm thinking about leaving the band that's been a huge part of my life for the past 7 years. That and a fucking huge desire for a drink, because getting drunk would be so easy, and it would let me forget, for a little while, what Danny looked like with his fucking face blown off.

Soon the balance has shifted--I'm the one shaking now, and Tim's comforting me, holding me, kissing the back of my neck, my temple, my cheek. Then we're kissing like I'm drowning and he's my only air, kisses bittersweet with tears and gratitude and guilt.

Eventually we remember that we're in the back of a fucking cop car, and we manage to get ourselves under control. Tim looks into the rearview mirror apologetically, and the young woman behind the wheel smiles at us and tells us she's sorry for our loss. We both relax a little and lean back in our seats for the rest of the ride to the Bureau office in Flagstaff, where we'll no doubt be questioned for hours before we can get back to our home and our family. And round the clock surveillance.

Tim asks the question I know we're both thinking about.

"Do you think we should postpone the wedding?"

"Shit, Tim, I don't know. I don't want to, believe me, but unless they catch the fuckers that did this right away, I think we have to."

"Yeah." I feel his chin on my shoulder as he nods. "But let's wait a day or two before we decide for sure, okay? If we can go ahead with it--fuck, Bill, I don't want to wait any longer. I don't want to wait at all." I hear the tremor in his voice, and I turn to look at him.

"Tim, you know--" I hesitate, wanting to get this right. "The ceremony--it's going to be great, and I'm glad we're doing it, believe me, but I couldn't be any more married to you than I already am. You've got me, richer or poorer, sickness and health, until death--you know that, don't you?"

He looks into my eyes and nods. "For me, too--richer or poorer, sickness and health, until death."

"Okay then," I answer, kissing him softly. "Done. We're married."

"I love you so fucking much, Bill," he answers. I kiss him again, framing his beautiful face between my hands, then tell him I love him too. Then the trooper in the front seat clears her throat and I realize we've pulled into a very familiar parking lot, the one at the Flagstaff FBI office, and I stroke Tim's face one more time, then get ready to help him out of the car.

He's limping much worse than usual, barely able to take a step, not quite succeeding at keeping quiet. I know he's really hurting, so I get on his bad side. He gives me a grateful look and slings his arm around my shoulders, shifting his cane to his left hand, still barely able to take a step. Bartlett meets us at the door with a wheelchair--don't know where he got it, but I'm glad he did. He takes Tim away with him while Zoe guides me to an interview room down another hall.

It doesn't take long for Zoe to establish that I didn't see much, and then she updates me on the investigation so far. There was a bomb hooked up to our jeep, and they found a couple in the restaurant besides the one in the kitchen. None of the bombs were especially well-made, for which we can be grateful--if they'd arranged things a little better, the whole restaurant would have gone up in flames.

They arrested one of the bus boys--apparently he got pretty hinky when they were questioning the employees, and they found traces of some sort of chemical residue that indicated he made at least one of the bombs. They got a description from Deeja of the kid that gave her the package, but she was drunk enough that they're not too confident it'll help. She's agreed to work with a sketch artist and look at some photos of known Eisenites, but they're pretty cautious about that as well.

I ask about Stefanski, and they give me a run around about lack of staffing, inadequate budgets for training agents, and the like. I can tell they're hiding something, but I figure Tim will get to the bottom of it better than I ever could--and I know that even if the agents I'm talking to now don't want to admit responsibility, Bartlett won't rest until he's rooted out whatever problems he can find.

Then they're finally done with me, but they're going to keep Tim a bit longer, so I'm welcome to wait. Yeah, like I'm going anywhere without him. They show me into a conference room--the same one with the same bathroom we hid in last year--and I see Kat and Chelle sitting there. I give Kat a gentle hug, nervous about her belly, and sit down wearily next to them.

"What's wrong, Billy?" Kat asks. "Beyond the obvious, I mean--Tim's okay?"

"He's fine, just a little bruised and cut up. I think we're both about to fucking fall apart, but physically we're okay."

"How are the girls?"

"Fuck, I haven't seen them since we left the hospital. Fucking feds, told me they had to take our statements separately. I know they're just doing their job, but that doesn't make it any fucking easier, you know? Jesus, I want a fucking drink like you wouldn't believe."

Chelle comes over and puts her arm around me, like we're playing some sort of fucking musical chairs, and it's her turn to comfort. And I am just so fucking exhausted that I almost lose it.

"Drinking's not going to solve anything, Billy."

"I said I wanted a fucking drink, Kat, not that I was going to get one," I snap. "What with Deeja and all, jesus--" I rest my head in my hands, fighting the urge to just lay it on the table.

"You feel up to talking about her? We don't have to, not tonight--shit, forget I even said it, it'll wait," Chelle says, moving back over to Kat. Neither one of them will look me in the eye.

"No, it won't wait, not anymore. What the fuck's going on with her? What did you not want to talk about at dinner?"

The women look at each other for a second, like they're deciding who's going to tell me whatever bad news there is. Then Kat speaks up.

"Have you noticed how she looks at you?"

"What the fuck do you mean, how she looks at me? Okay, I admit there might be a little hero worship going on, which I don't fucking understand, but she's young and pretty new to all of this, so I guess it makes some kind of sense."

"She's in love with you, Billy," Chelle says seriously. "At least, that's what she told a couple of the roadies when she was drinking with them."

Try as I might, I can't wrap my brain around this one. I sit there for a minute, no doubt with a completely blank look on my face. Deeja? In love with me?

"That's ridiculous, Chelle. There must be a mistake--she was drunk, they were drunk, maybe she just said it to get them off her back or something." I want to believe that.

Kat interrupts. "Bill, the way she looks at you, it's not fucking hero worship. Shit, even Tim figured it out tonight, or at least I think he did."

"You're serious."

They nod. "Look," I say, scrounging for something to make sense, "Deeja knows all about Tim and me. She knows I love him. I've never hidden that from her, or from anyone. And I'm practically old enough to be her father, for christ's sake. Why the fuck would she fall in love with me? It doesn't make any fucking sense!"

"Listen to yourself, Billy, jesus! You of all people should know that falling in love doesn't have jackshit to do with logic! You're the alcoholic punk with a juvie record who's in love with a fucking FBI agent!"

Chelle's practically yelling at me by this point. And what she's saying makes a fucking uncomfortable sort of sense. Deeja does hang out with me all the time when we're on tour--_all_ the time, until I tell her I'm going to my room or whatever. She gets a puppy dog look on her face sometimes when I'm talking to Tim on the phone. And that was a pretty messy kiss she laid on me before she walked out of the restaurant tonight, complete with tongue. Fuck, I guess I knew she was attracted to me, but this?

"Maybe you're right. But if you are--shit, what the fuck am I supposed to do about it? If she is in love with me, that still doesn't excuse what happened tonight, or all the drinking she's been doing."

Then some agent I've never met wheels Tim in. He looks totally fucked--exhausted, hurting, wrung out.

"What is it?" I ask, taking his hand.

He looks at me with defeat in his eyes.

"Stefanski was in on it," he says quietly. And all the jaws around the table drop.

"Wait a minute. What the fuck do you mean, Stefanski was in on it?" I ask.

"He was in on it, Bill. He planted the bomb they found on our jeep. If that kid hadn't given the package to Deeja, he would have brought it in, said it was a present from the agents who'd been watching us. The people who built the bomb, though, they didn't do a very good job. It was supposed to be a lot more of a bang. The car bomb, that was just supposed to be some sort of fucking insurance policy, in case we were out of the room or something. He made the smart move, made a deal with the federal prosecutor, confessed, gave up a whole shitload of names and contacts. So now he'll be eligible for fucking parole in forty years instead of getting the death penalty." His voice is tired, bitter.

"But he gave it up?" Chelle asks tentatively. "They got the names and the testimony they need, for sure this time?" Tim just nods slowly and puts his head in his hands.

"So it's over?" Kat asks. "No more Eisen psychos out to kill you? They'll catch the bad guys, and it'll be over, right?"

"That's the plan," he says wearily. "But I don't know if it'll ever really be over. There will always be more of them out there: Eisen's people, skinheads, homophobes, racists, your garden variety hate crime waiting to happen." He looks up at me. "I'd like to go home now, Bill."

"Yeah, of course. Where are the girls?" Fuck, how late is it anyway? Past time for them to be in bed, that's for damned sure.

"Already there. Zoe took them a little while ago--she's staying there with them until we get back."

"Go, get out of here--we'll talk to you tomorrow," Chelle says. "I need to get Kat back to the hotel anyway. We'll make sure Deeja gets to the hotel, too, and we'll all talk tomorrow."

I nod and get up to wheel Tim out.

We get a different trooper this time, an older guy with a paunch and a gruff stare, but he helps me get Tim into the back seat and drives carefully over the crappy roads, so I don't care. Tim falls asleep during the short drive, the first time he's done that in months, and wakes with a start when the trooper opens the door for us. He looks a little panicked for a second, but he relaxes when he realizes where we are.

There were Flagstaff city cops at the gate, and there are state troopers at the house, settling in to the living room with coffee, donuts, and sidearms, or patrolling outside. For once, there's not a single FBI agent. The trooper helps me get Tim inside, and I'm grateful for the extra muscle, because I'm starting to realize that my whole body aches. And if I'm hurting, I know Tim's got to be hurting a lot worse.

Sure enough, by the time I get him into the bedroom, he's pale, and his legs are shaking so much I have to help him get them up on the bed. They don't want him to have any narcotics because of the concussion, so I give him one of the horse-pills of ibuprofen they sent us home with, then take one myself.

"Did I ever tell you about the case Felton had, the tourists from Iowa?"

"Tim, I don't have a clue who Felton is, much less any tourists from Iowa." I don't say what else I'm thinking, which is what the fuck are you talking about some case for, because he's going to tell me anyway. Needs to tell me, probably.

"Beau Felton, he was a detective I used to work with, and he caught this case, a real motherfucker of a redball, where this tourist got shot in a robbery by Camden Yards, while her husband and her two kids watched."

"If you're trying to cheer me up, Detective, it's not fucking working." That goes right by him. He's in Earnest Tim mode, so I settle down on the bed next to him and listen.

"No, it's just--Munch and I, we interviewed them, you know? I remember the boy; he was in 8th grade, 8th fucking grade and he gets to see his mother's face blown off in front of him. The little girl, she didn't see much, 'cause her mom pushed her behind her, you know, protected her. And I remember the look on those kids' faces, on the husband's face. And he, when I brought him his wife's things, he wanted to hold my gun, just so he could know what it felt like, because he felt guilty, I guess, that he didn't do anything to stop the punk that killed his wife. And at the time, I thought I understood--thought I was the sensitive detective, you know? Felton nearly got thrown off the case, joking around about overtime in front of the guy, but good old Bayliss, he tried to help.

"But I didn't understand, Bill. I didn't have a fucking clue. I know that now. Because my kids--our kids--they lost two people they loved tonight, and even though I know I did everything I could to protect them, I'm always going to wonder why I didn't pick up on the gift sooner, or that Stefanski was acting strange, or what else I could have done to stop Danny and Gordon from getting blown to bits."

"You saved lives tonight, Tim. If you hadn't figured out what was going on when you did, we would have lost Billie and Ruth along with Danny and Gordon, and maybe some others."

"Maybe if I'd gotten up there to where they were standing--"

"Do not fucking go there, Timothy. I don't need to deal with your fucking death wish again, do you hear me? As it was, you were too fucking close, but at least you didn't move any closer."

"You don't need to worry about that anymore, Bill. Shit, I've never been so fucking scared in my life--it was all I could do not to grab you and the girls and run out of the room, as if I even could."

"Glad to hear you're not on such a self-destruction trip anymore."

"Yeah, well, things change. I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm going to hold you to that."

Neither one of us has more to say, so I'm just sitting there with him when Zoe knocks on the door.

"Sorry to disturb you, but I promised the girls I'd ask you something for them."

"What is it, Zoe?" Tim says.

"They said they didn't think they'd be able to get to sleep, and they wanted one of you to check on them when you got home, so they could know you'd made it here all right. Oh, and don't be worried when you see Ruth's room is empty--she insisted on sleeping with Sarah."

"Don't even think about it, Tim," I say immediately. "You're staying right here. If any of them are awake, I'll bring them in here to see you, okay?"

"That would be great, Bill," he says with a slight smile, and I want to go find Stefanski and every single other fucker involved and strangle them with my bare hands, although I'm not sure how I'd find the energy. I settle for giving him a gentle kiss and stroking his hair.

I go to Billie's room first. She's asleep, but she wakes up when I sit down on the bed.

"Hey, lovebug."

"Dad--is Tim okay?"

"He's hurting, but he's going to be fine. You can go see him if you want--he's in the bedroom. I think he'd like to see you."

"I guess you were pretty scared when you saw him on the floor, huh?"

"Yeah, I was, just like I was scared that you might have gotten hurt. You feeling okay? Any bumps or bruises?"

"I think I got a couple on my knees and hands when you pushed me down, but no big deal. How about you?" She reaches up tentatively to touch the butterflies on my neck.

"I'm a little sore, but I'll be fine. Just don't be surprised if I'm a little gimpy tomorrow."

"We'll take care of you and Tim, don't worry. I'm really sorry he got hurt."

"Why don't you go on in and give him a hug? I've got to go check on Sarah and Ruthie, but I'll be in in a minute. But give your old man a hug first."

"Okay." She climbs into my arms, and jesus, I never want to let her go. She seems to understand that her dad's more than a little needy right now, because she squeezes back pretty tightly, and stays there until I'm finally ready to loosen my grip, give her a kiss, and send her on to see Tim.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she tells me as we both get off the bed. "I'm glad you and Tim and Ruth and Sarah are all right."

"So am I, lovebug."

"Sarah and Ruth are really upset--they knew Gordon and Danny really well, their whole lives. And they're really worried about Tim, and about you, too. You're kind of like another dad to them, like I've got you and Evan."

"You've got Tim, too. He loves you, Billie."

"Yeah, I know," she says, sounding troubled.

"Are you sure you're okay? This was a pretty rough night for all of us."

"I'm fine, Daddy. I'll go see Tim now--I know Sarah and Ruth are probably waiting for you."

I give her a kiss on the forehead and send her down the hall.

The door is open to Sarah's room, and the light is on. They're both awake, curled up in bed together, and Sarah's reading to Ruthie. I watch them for a minute. When they see me in the doorway, they jump up and run over to me with identical worried expressions, then grab onto me. They're both talking at once, asking how Tim is, how I am, and what's going on.

"Hold on a minute, you two. Why don't we all sit down for a sec, and then I'll answer all your questions." They sit down on either side of me on Sarah's bed, and I put my arms around them and drop a kiss on each temple.

"First of all, your dad's fine. He and I both got a few cuts and scrapes, but we're basically just a little banged up, him a little more than me. He's in the bedroom, and Billie's already gone in there to see him. We'll go in ourselves in a sec."

"Didn't they say at the hospital he had a concussion?" Sarah asks.

"Yes, a mild one--they did a CT scan and didn't see any broken bones or swelling in his brain. He's got a headache, and he's pretty exhausted, but he really is okay."

That seems to satisfy her for the moment, but I can tell both of them are going to be watching Tim very carefully the next few days. Since I'm going to be doing the same thing, I can't blame them.

"Now, there are police inside and outside the house, and they have the names of the people who did this and are tracking them down and arresting them. They checked over the house very carefully, and everything here is perfectly safe. Still, we're all going to be a little jumpy for awhile, and we're going to have to put up with some inconvenience to make sure we stay safe."

Sarah has another question. "Are you canceling the wedding, Bill?"

"No, we'd never do that, Mouse. We might have to reschedule it, postpone it for a little while, but we're still getting married. We'll just have to wait and see what the next couple of days bring before we can make that decision for sure."

"Will there be a funeral?"

Shit, I hadn't even thought about that. One more thing to take care of. "Of course there will be. I don't know exactly when or where--we'll have to figure some stuff out--but of course there'll be a funeral, and we'll all be there, unless you don't feel comfortable going."

"We want to go," Sarah answers for both of them. "They didn't have any family, you know, except for us and Eli." She starts to cry, and so does her sister, so I pull them into another hug and tell them how sorry I am. Fuck. Eli's been living with Gordon and Danny.

It doesn't take long for them to stop crying, and I'm reminded again of all the horrible shit they've been through, of all the people they've lost already, with no funerals or opportunities to mourn. It's fucking amazing that they're such great kids.

"Listen, girls, I want to tell you something important. You two--I know you've been through a lot, more than most people two or three times your age. You're strong--you've had to be, to make it this far--but you haven't lost your ability to connect, to let folks into your lives and love them, and that's really fucking amazing, and don't you dare tell your dad I used that word. You know how much you mean to him, but I hope you know how much you mean to me, too."

"We do, Bill," Ruth tells me, and gives me a kiss. Sarah puts her arm around my waist and squeezes, tucking her head onto my shoulder. We sit there for a second, give all of us a chance to feel some security, some family feeling. Then I realize again how tired I am, how tired we all are.

"Come on, you two, let's go, before your dad falls asleep again."

****

I've made it to the bathroom and back, and I'm losing the fight to keep my eyes open when there's a tentative knock on the door and Billie comes in. She walks over to the bed, and I can see her eyes filling with tears as she gets closer.

"Billie, honey, it's all right," I tell her, gesturing for her to join me on the bed. She climbs up and into my arms, buries her face in my chest, and starts to cry. "What's wrong, sweetie? What is it?"

She finally lifts her head off my chest, although she doesn't look at me. "I'm sorry, Tim. I'm so sorry."

What the hell is she sorry for? I'm at a loss, so I settle for saying, "It's all right. Can you tell me what's wrong?"  
She still won't look at me.

"Billie, whatever it is, you can tell me."

"You won't like it. You might not like me anymore."

"Nothing you could say would make that happen. I love you, Billie--don't you know that?"

"But I don't want you to marry my father. I don't want him to move here. I was hoping something would happen and he'd change his mind, and then something did happen, but I didn't want anything like this!" She's crying even harder now, and I try to just hold on to her and let her know it's all right. After a couple minutes she sits up again and wipes her eyes.

"It wasn't your fault," I tell her. "No matter what you might have wished or thought, that had nothing to do with what happened."

"I know that, but I still feel terrible. I know you love my dad, and you love me, and really, Tim, I pretty much love you, too, but I didn't want to."

I pause a minute and look at her seriously. I know she's been unhappy with all the attention Ruth, Sarah, and I have gotten from her father, and I know it must have been hard for her to admit it.

"You know, when my mom and my baby sister came home from the hospital, I didn't like her. I wanted someone to come and take her away. It's normal to feel what you've been feeling--it makes perfect sense that you didn't want to like me, that you felt like I was taking your dad away from you. But I know how much he loves you, and I think you probably do too. No one could ever take your place with your dad. He'll always love you. It's just that he's got more people to love now, more people to love him. I think that's good, don't you? Because you can't be with him all the time, and I think he was a little lonely."

"I know he was. And I know he's really happy now, that you guys love each other. I'm glad you're here to take care of him. Evan said I'm jealous that you and them get to be with him all the time, and I don't; I told him he was wrong, but maybe he wasn't. Is it mean to be jealous of Ruth and Sarah? Because I know they don't have a mom like I do."

"No, they don't. They're probably a little jealous of you, too."

"I never thought of that."

"Have you talked to them at all about where they grew up?"

"Not really. Ruth doesn't like to talk about it, and I think Sarah's worried she might scare me. They both have nightmares sometimes. They did when we were on that trip, but they wouldn't talk about it."

"Well, it might take them awhile before they feel comfortable talking about it, but I bet they'd appreciate it if you let them know you're willing to listen."

"Maybe you could tell me about it sometime, too. Dad hasn't told me much. Even though he never said anything about you when you were there, I could tell he was really worried--I just didn't know why. When he called me from the hospital, I almost didn't recognize his voice, because he was trying to sound normal, but he was really scared. But all he ever really told me was that some really bad people tried to kill you."

"Well, that's the gist of it, but I'll tell you whatever you want to know--just not tonight."

"Okay. Thanks, Tim." She's giving me another hug when Sarah and Ruth come in with Bill. Everyone climbs up around me, just like they did at Christmas. Our new bed is huge--Bill said he special ordered it out of desperation, because of the way I sprawl all over the place at night--so there's plenty of room. Sarah and Ruth curl up on either side of me, and Billie climbs over so she's in between Sarah and Bill. My hand reaches over Billie and Sarah's heads to Bill's shoulder. I reach out and run my fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes and sighs.

"Dad?" Ruth asks.

"What is it, sweetie?"

"Can we sleep here tonight?" Bill meets my eyes and nods.

"Sure, Ruth, you can sleep here if you want. Billie, Sarah, you can too, or you can sleep in your rooms, wherever you want. But Bill's going to be waking me up every couple hours, so if you think that'll bother you, you might want to sleep in your own beds."

"And while you kids decide where you're going to sleep, I'm going to get ready for bed," Bill says, ruffling heads, including mine, as he gets up. Ruth climbs over to the middle of the bed, in between Billie and Sarah, and gets under the covers. Sarah looks down at her for a second, then gets in next to her, cuddling her close.

I look over at Billie. She's obviously torn between joining in and going back to her own room--she's an only child, not used to the kind of closeness Sarah and Ruth grew up with. She barely knew Gordon and Danny. But she shrugs and climbs in next to Ruth, who smiles appreciatively at her.

I fluff up the pillows under their heads, then my own, and get under the covers with them. Bill comes back in his sleep attire--we've both taken to wearing pajama pants and t shirts since Sarah and Ruth moved in, although I still sometimes laugh at the sight of the hardass punk in flannel pants and bed head while eating his breakfast--and he smiles at the sight of the three girls nestled together in the middle of the bed. He heads over to the other side of the bed, gives Billie a goodnight kiss, then reaches over her to Sarah and Ruth. Then he turns out the light on that side and comes over to my side of the bed, gesturing for me to scoot over.

"Hey," he says softly, then kisses me. "Love you."

"Love you," I answer, and kiss him back. He turns out the other light, and I take the opportunity to spoon around him. I need to feel that wiry body next to mine, especially tonight. I bury my nose in his hair, pulling him tightly to me. He understands, maybe feels the same, because he brings my hands up to his lips, kisses them softly, and keeps them there, where I can feel his warm breath on my knuckles.

His chest expands against me as we both sigh. I can feel his lips quirk up in a smile as he presses another kiss on my knuckles, and I kiss the top of his head in return. We both lay there, awake, listening as each of the girls' breathing slowly deepens into sleep.

He turns to face me then, hands framing my face, lips meeting mine softly. "You okay?" he whispers. I nod, kiss him again.

"Love you so much," I breathe, suddenly close to tears again.

"Love you. Not going anywhere. Think you could sleep?"

"Yeah, maybe." And surprisingly, I do, until I wake around dawn. The girls have gone back to their own rooms at some point, and Bill's obviously forgotten to set the alarm to wake me, but I'm just as obviously fine, so I get some ibuprofen and then curl back around him and fall back asleep immediately.

The next thing I know, I'm hearing Bill's voice, a little panicked, saying, "Shit! Tim, wake up, are you okay?"

I open my eyes. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"I just fucking woke up, that's all--I forgot to set the alarm to check on you. How are you feeling?"

"A little achy, that's all. Well, that and I have to pee like a fucking racehorse."

He helps me into the bathroom, then out to the living room, where we are immediately but gently beset by Billie, Ruth, and Sarah, all of them demanding to know how we could have slept so long, and do we know what time it is, and what do we want to eat, and there have been phone calls from Mom, Frank, and a bunch of other people, all of whom left messages, and Bartlett's coming over in a couple hours to talk to us, so it's a good thing we finally got up, and so on. It's exhausting just listening to them, and I'm tempted to head right back into the bedroom.

The phone rings as Sarah's getting us some sandwiches. Officer Tsinnee from the Flagstaff Police answers it, then hands it to me.

"Hello?"

"Teej, is that you?" Jesus--I can't believe it. I haven't heard that soft voice in years, but I'd recognize it anywhere.

"Yeah, it's me, Jim."

"I heard about the bombing on the news--are you all right?"

"Bill and I both got a little banged up, but we were lucky. We lost some good friends, and the girls are pretty shaken up." I'm not about to hide my family, even if it makes him uncomfortable.

"Yeah, your mom told me about how you adopted those girls. I always thought you'd be a great dad--I'm glad you've finally gotten the chance."

"Thanks. How are yours doing?" The conversation feels so strange--unreal, but still so completely familiar, like so many conversations we've had in the past.

"Great, they're great. Well, pissed off at their dad for being so stubborn, but otherwise great. They miss you. And so do I."

"I miss you, too, you know. Didn't think I'd ever talk to you again, though. Didn't think you wanted anything to do with me."

"Well, I didn't, at least not at first. Shit, Tim, you really threw me for a loop. I never in a million years had you pegged that way, and I couldn't believe I could be so wrong about you. I got worried about all the time you were spending with the kids."

"My sexuality's not catching, Jim," I say firmly, with just a trace of bitterness. "And I'm happy. I'm happier with Bill than I've ever been."

"Yeah, I know, Nancy told me, and your mom. But when you told me, you weren't happy then. You were a mess, and I thought you were just trying to mess up your life some more."

"I couldn't have messed it up any more than it was already. I _was_ unhappy--I was depressed--Jim, I went to you for some support, and you called me a pervert and threw me out of your house!"

I realize I'm shouting, the girls are staring at me, and Bill's there, next to me, hand on my shoulder. I take a deep breath. There's silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds before I hear Jim's anguished voice.

"I didn't know, Tim, you have to believe me. I didn't know about Uncle George, about what he did to you. I should have, but I was so damned jealous of all the attention he gave you, the extra presents. And I should have known how much you were hurting. I'm sorry, Tim. Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"I was afraid--some part of me thought that if I told you, he'd know, and he'd start doing it to you."

Bill is listening, and inhales when he hears what I've just said. He leans his forehead against my shoulder, then kisses my neck. My eyes are burning, and I pull him closer with my free hand and brush a kiss on his cheek. Jim's silent again.

"Jim--he didn't ever hurt you or Kurt, did he?"

"No. He never hurt us. Just you."

"Thank god. I spent a lot of time worrying about that, you know."

"Jesus, Tim--how can you be so damned calm about it?"

"I've had a lot of time to think about it. I've been seeing a counselor. And I've been happy, Jim, for the first time in my life--I'm in love, I have wonderful kids, a great job, and I'm very aware of how lucky I am. Two people who mean a lot to me and my family died last night, but my family, the people I love, are all right. No one will ever abuse my daughters again. Uncle George is dead--he won't ever abuse me, or anyone else, ever again. That's enough--it's got to be."

There's another pause, then a sigh.

"You're really in love with this guy Bill?"

"More than I can tell you. I'm sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but this is it for me. I'm going to have what you always said you wanted for me--someone to love, a marriage, kids--is it so horrible that the person I found is another man? Can't you still be happy for me? Even Frank's okay with it."

"Nancy told me he was going to be your best man."

"Yeah--he thinks it's absurd for two men to be getting married, but he's still gonna stand up for me." I pause and gather my courage. "Jim, I meant it when I said I miss you. I'd like you to meet Ruth and Sarah, my daughters, and Bill, and his daughter. You're welcome any time, but if you could make it out for the wedding, that would mean a lot to me."

"I--uh--I don't know if I'm ready for that yet. I think your pal Frank was right when he called me a redneck. Give me a little more time to get used to it, okay?"

"Sure," I say, trying not to let my disappointment overwhelm the relief that we've actually managed a civil conversation for the first time in nearly three years. "Give my love to Shannon and the kids, okay? And maybe we can talk again soon."

"Yeah, let's do that. Give Aunt Virginia a hug for me, and take care of yourself, Teej."

"You too, Jim. I love you, you know."

"I know. And I still love you. Bye."

"Bye."

I turn off the phone with a sigh as Bill puts his arms around me and Sarah comes over to sit on my other side. Billie and Ruth are visible outside on the deck, being unobtrusively watched by one of the local officers.

"Big surprise there, huh?" Bill asks softly.

"You could say that," I reply dryly.

"Who was that, Dad?"

"My cousin Jim. I haven't spoken to him in a few years--he wasn't too happy when I told him I was bisexual."

"But he's okay with it now, right?" she asks hopefully.

"Okay with it? Not really, Mouse, but he's getting there. He's getting there, and that's good enough news for now."

"Virginia will be thrilled. You know she and Nancy will be working on him to get out here for the wedding, even if he did say no when you asked him."

"I think we need to push it back a few weeks."

"You okay with that?"

"It wouldn't be right--we've got to have the funeral, you know? And I think we all need some time."

He nods, his arms still around me. "Sarah, would you mind going out and seeing how Ruth and Billie are doing? I think your dad and I need a little time to talk."

"Okay, but call me if you need me."

"Thanks, Mouse," I say, giving her a quick squeeze. "We'll be out in a little while."

****

Tim's still looking a little shell-shocked, which I guess is no surprise after the last twenty-four hours. I'm feeling pretty fucking shell-shocked myself, so I lean my forehead on his shoulder and sigh.

"You okay?" he asks, stroking my hair. "Did you take some ibuprofen?"

"Yes, Dr. Bayliss, I took some ibuprofen. Freak."

"Your freak. I have a feeling there's a lot we need to talk about."

"Planning a funeral, planning a wedding, taking care of the kids, whether I should quit Jenifur--"

"What?"

I sigh again. "Tim, it's bad enough we're in danger--you, me, our family--but last night, jesus, it could have been Kat and the baby, you know? First the bombs in Alabama, and now this--I don't want to put them in any more danger."

"Bill--" he hesitates. "Of course I'll support you no matter what, but maybe now's not the best time for a decision like that."

"I just feel so fucking helpless, you know? Jesus, Tim, I really wanted a drink last night. Still do."

"Did you talk to Deeja?"

"Fuck. No. Chelle says she thinks she's in love with me--what the fuck am I supposed to do about that?"

"I don't know, Bill. But I do know one thing--it's not your fault she's drinking, or that she's in love with you. That part's pretty easy, at least from my perspective."

"You're not upset about it?"

"I'm worried about her, just like you are, but I'm not upset. Why should I be? I'm the love of your fucking life, or so you've told me." He's smiling fondly, obviously trying to cheer me up, which should annoy the fuck out of me but doesn't.

"Yeah, well, don't let it go to your head or anything," I say. "It's not like I had any choice in the matter."

He laughs. "You mean you didn't always want to marry a fucked-up, Buddhist, vegetarian, male, former cop and FBI agent? I'm shocked, Bill, just shocked."

"Shut up and kiss me, freak," I tell him. He obliges me quite thoroughly. When we come up for air, I mention the other thing that's been bothering me.

"What about Eli?"

"Yeah, I know," he sighs.

"Where did he stay last night?"

"They put him in a safe house."

"He's a year older than Sarah, right? Sixteen?"

"Uh, I think he's seventeen now--Gordon was telling me--shit." He takes a minute. "They had a birthday party for him a couple weeks ago."

"Sarah's got quite a crush on him."

"Yeah. She'd love it, but I'm not sure it would be such a great idea."

"Still. He could bunk in the studio."

"Yeah. I'll make the call."

"What do you think about October?"

"October. Second weekend? It shouldn't be too cold yet."

"Second weekend it is. We'll get through this. The kids will, too."

"I know. Love you."

"I know. Love you, gonna marry you, raise our kids together, blah blah blah blah blah," I tell him, giving him another kiss before getting up. "Come on, let's take a couple phones outside, make our calls in the sunshine getting hugs from kids, okay?"

The rest of the day is filled with shit like getting Eli set up in the studio, at least for now, talking with various detectives, agents, social workers, and lawyers from various local, state, and federal agencies, arranging for yet more security measures, and rescheduling everything for the wedding. Later that afternoon, Kat and Chelle come by, and it's time to have a conversation with them I wish I didn't have to have.

They follow me into a small conference room in the studio and sit down when I ask them to, sharing a knowing look that makes me a little nervous. First I catch them up on the new date for the wedding, the plans for the funeral, and how Eli's bunking in the studio for now. Then I swallow and light a cigarette, putting it out a second later when I remember why Kat and Chelle don't smoke anymore.

"This is going to be hard to get out, so don't say anything until I'm done, okay?"

They nod at me, then exchange another knowing glance.

"I love you two, and I love the music we've made over the last seven years. Being in Jenifur has been like a fucking dream come true, both artistically and personally. But my life is different now--I'm with Tim, and because of that, I've put you in danger. I'd never be able to forgive myself if something happened to either one of you, or the baby, because the psychos who are after Tim saw me as a target. So I'm going to have to leave the band."

"Fuck that, Billy," Kat says fiercely. "You're not leaving the band. Chelle and I talked last night--we figured you'd pull some shit like this--and we've decided that we should take some time off, starting now. We were going to do it anyway, once the baby was born, so we'll just start a little earlier. We'll take as much time as we need to make sure that you and Tim are safe, and then we'll start recording and touring again. It's not up for discussion."

I stare at them. "Just how long of a fucking break are you thinking of taking? I appreciate what you're saying, but we all know this isn't going to just go away. I hope there'll be a time in the future where we'll be safe, but there aren't any guarantees, and I meant what I said--I am not putting you two and your child at risk again."

"I think you've forgotten something," Chelle says sweetly, always a dangerous sign with her.

"What's that?" I ask warily.

"The fact that we own half of this studio, and Deeja owns another quarter. When we're ready to record again, this is where we're going to do it. If you want to sulk in the house instead of joining us, I guess that'll be your right, but we'll be here, no matter what."

"Fuck."

"Well put, Billy." Kat's voice has some of the same sugary sweetness as Chelle's, but the sarcasm's more out in the open. "Now that that's settled, can we talk about Deeja?"

I sigh. "What the fuck are we going to do? Where is she now, anyway?"

"She's in Sedona, undergoing treatment," Chelle answers. "Signed herself in for thirty days."

"Have you talked to her?"

"Just for a minute last night, before she got in the taxi. It's one of those programs where there's no contact for a couple weeks, but Kat talked to the center this morning, confirmed that Deeja got there okay."

"And this is a good place, right? Not some fucking new-age country club?"

"It's a tough program. Got a good rep--we checked it out. After last night, she's pretty motivated, so hopefully it'll work." Kat pauses, looks at Chelle. "And if it doesn't, we'll figure something else out. We never gave up on you, and we're not giving up on her."

"How's the label feel about all this?"

"They're pissed," Chelle admits. "But our contract's rock solid, and we're shipping more albums than ever. Even donating our back end to the Fund, the label's still getting their cut, and all this is just more free publicity as far as they're concerned. Taking time off to have a baby never hurt Madonna any. They'll deal."

"Mark said they offered, or maybe threatened, to get a special security detail for Deeja, to keep her away from bars, make sure she gets drug tests, that sort of thing," Kat says.

"Yeah, they do those things these days," I answer wryly. The two of them look at each other, then at me. "What? You didn't know? Jesus, they were on my ass for nearly two years after Joe. You mean to tell me you didn't notice?"

"We knew, Bill," Chelle answers kindly. "We just haven't thought about it lately."

"It's another good reason for Jenifur to take a break for awhile. Deej said it was all right with her if we wanted to put out a press release about her entering treatment, since it'll probably come out anyway. Between that, the bombing, the wedding coming up, and the baby, you'd think even the label would understand," Kat adds. And once again, I have to admit she makes a lot of sense.

So I give up on leaving the band and go back to getting ready for the wedding, still worried about keeping my friends and family safe, but feeling pretty fucking confident we'll be okay, at least for awhile.

As usual when I'm feeling confident, more trouble's just around the fucking corner.


	4. The Owl Protects Our House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding finally happens, but not without some problems.

The night before, I make my way through the mountains and into the trees. I stop about two miles from the house and spend the rest of the night in prayer.

My brothers failed, despite months of planning. They bribed an FBI agent, but they still failed. At least there are two fewer perverts in the world, even if the bomb got the wrong ones.

I decided to fulfill my destiny alone. I was chosen for this task, and only I could carry it out. I've known how to shoot since I was a child, thanks to my brother Joseph. I explored the area around Church Canyon many times, spying on Timothy when he went running in the mornings, before he betrayed us. I knew Timothy, knew his routine, the way he thought. In the past few months, I spent just as much time getting familiar with the land Timothy's lover bought, with the patrol routes the police use.

I used my connections to get a rifle, ammunition, and a place to practice. I managed to get a message to my Holy Father, but I didn't share the details of my plan with my brothers. They wouldn't believe I could do it; they tolerate me only because of my name and reputation. That will change.

God has been with me all along. I was upset, I'll admit, when my brothers in Flagstaff dismissed me as useless. I tried to force my way into their meetings, but they moved the time and the place. Idiots. Once they thought I'd told them everything I knew, they threw me out. "This is no place for a female," I was told.

My Holy Father knew my value. If I die completing my task, he will greet me with open arms in Heaven.

My social worker and parole officer remain convinced that I am a meek, hard-working child. It is so easy to fool them. Just like my brothers in the church, they see only what they want to see. The FBI, the Flagstaff Police, Timothy, his lover, my sister-wives, they've all relaxed. They believe they've caught everyone involved in the bombing, and they're right, thanks to the FBI turncoat. But my brothers, the men who dismissed me so easily, would never mention me, and Stefanski never even knew of my existence. It still won't be easy finding my way closer, close enough to do my holy work, but I will. God is with me.

****

It's the day before the wedding, and Tim's driving me fucking nuts, and not in the good way. Don't get me wrong--tomorrow's going to be wonderful, fucking amazing, a great day. I love him so much it fucking hurts, and I'm planning to tell everyone all about it in about 22 hours, but I don't know if any of us are going to survive until then, because Detective Angst is in the house, with fucking bells on.

He's obsessing about everything, even more than usual. He's worried about the caterer making it past the security checkpoints, and then five seconds later he's worrying about whether we've got enough security. He won't let me into the closet, because his tux is hanging there, and he doesn't want me to see it, the fucking goof.   
I try to talk to him about the plans for our trip up to Canada, something I'm more nervous about than I'm willing to admit, but he's too distracted by the weather report, worrying it's going to rain or even snow. I try to help him by reminding him that Gloria's got all the details worked out, but he says she's not getting married, we are, and I can't very well argue with that.

Finally I pull him into the bedroom, away from Gloria, his mom, the girls, fucking television, the guy from the Flagstaff police, and the phone. I shut the door and push him onto the bed.

"Bill, it's not that I don't appreciate this, but my _mother_'s right outside," he laughs.

"What exactly do you think is going on here, Tim?" I ask, sitting down next to him, refraining from ripping his clothes off, because it really isn't the best time. Besides, we've got two weeks away from all interruptions coming up, so I should be able to control myself for one day.

"You mean you didn't bring me in here for nefarious purposes?"

"Sorry. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute, and I thought I'd have a better chance if I got you away from some of the distractions out there." He looks disappointed, so I relent long enough to give him a long, slow kiss, my fingers deep in his hair. That's almost enough to distract me, but I manage to cut it short before I finish unbuttoning his shirt.

"You've got my full attention," he says softly, caressing my face.

"I love you, Tim."

"Love you, too, Bill, so much."

"It's been fucking crazy around here, these last few months, getting ready for this thing, you know?"

"I know," he sighs, then pulls me close enough for another kiss. "I know I've been hard to live with lately, and I'm sorry. I just want everything to be perfect, especially now, after what happened. Jesus, between moving here, and the rehearsal, Gordon and Danny dying, Eli--we haven't exactly had a chance to settle in, start living a normal fucking life, you know? And I just want this thing to go right. It's important to me. _You're_ important to me."

I put my arm around his shoulder, and he leans into me. "I talked to Eli yesterday. He missed San Francisco, said he's glad to be back. Still a little thrown by everything that happened, but he seems to be getting along pretty well with his foster family. He apologized for missing the wedding, but I told him we understood, that school's more important."

"I'm just relieved he's not in the studio anymore."

"You and me both, Secret Agent Man. Talk about a fucking recipe for disaster--I just hope Sarah lets up a little now that he's in another state." I take his hand. "You haven't been hard to live with."

"Liar."

"Not that hard. Hasn't been easy for any of us, but I wouldn't trade it for anything; you know that."

"Neither would I."

"I guess I'd better give this back to you for now," I tell him, taking the ring off my right ring finger and handing it to him. He looks puzzled for a second, then smiles when he understands, pulling his own ring off and handing it to me. It's warm, and big enough for my index finger, so that's where I put it, remembering the ring I used to wear there. After Joe died, I stopped wearing it, stopped wearing my other rings, my bracelet. Never wanted to wear anything like that again, until Tim gave me the ring he's stuck on his pinky, the one he'll put on my finger tomorrow, the one I'll never take off again.

"You sure about the trip?" he asks.

"Yeah, I am," I answer, meeting his eyes.

"Because we could go somewhere else."

"No, it'll be good. You've never seen anything like the mountains up there, Tim--they make these look like fucking speed bumps."

"And Vancouver?"

"It's a great city. Not nearly as many murders as in Bawlmer." That gets me another smile.

"You sure you're all right bunking in the studio tonight?"

"Beyond thinking it's fucking stupid?" I tease. "You're not a fucking bride, Timmy, and neither am I. I know you didn't want me to see what you're wearing--please tell me it's not a white dress."

"I promise it's not a dress. And I know it's stupid--all right, all right, it's really fucking stupid--humor me?"

"I'm not going to get any sleep, not without you there."

"Neither will I, but I don't think I'd sleep much in any case."

"No, me neither. Jesus, Tim, we're getting married tomorrow," I say incredulously.

"Any cold feet?"

"Fuck no. I mean, it's fucking strange--never thought I'd get married, you know? Or if I did, I figured it'd be some sort of weird Sid and Nancy shit on my way to self-destruction, not anything like this."

"Not to a man?"

"That wasn't what I was going to say, but yeah, I suppose." I look at him. "Does it bother you sometimes? I know things were different for you, growing up--you always figured you'd find some woman, settle down, have some kids, like your cousin, right?"

"It's what I always thought I wanted, but what I've got now, with you, it's better. I did find someone, settle down, have some kids. And I did it after I'd given up ever finding someone. Now, for tomorrow, I just want all the trappings that are supposed to go with it. I want my family to be your family. I want everyone to know, to acknowledge, what we have. I want to celebrate it. That's why I asked you--so we could celebrate it."

"And that's exactly what we're going to do. Think you can relax enough to let yourself enjoy it?"

"I know a way you could get me to relax." He takes my hand, lays it on the front of his pants. Then he puts his fingers on me, and it feels good--fuck, it feels great--and I lean in to kiss him again, but then Virginia knocks on the door, and we break apart, smiling ruefully.

Later that night, after we get the kids in bed, he walks me out to the studio. I stop at the door, and I can see he's thinking about following me inside, but I hold up a hand to forestall that thought.

"Let's wait," I say, surprising myself. He smiles, a quick flash of teeth in the moonlight, and then I feel his mouth on mine, just for a couple seconds, before he gives me a hug and sends me on my way. I watch him cross the meadow, moving slowly, careful of the ruts, waving to the cop on duty for the night, opening the door, and walking into the house we built together, our house.

****

I can't believe how nervous I am. I'm dressed and ready--Frank has fussed over my tie about six times, but he's finally satisfied. The girls look beautiful--Sarah in green, Ruth in purple, Billie in blue. The three of them keep running back and forth between me and Bill, laughing and teasing.

I have no sign of cold feet; when I think about marrying Bill, I start smiling. But there's a nagging feeling in the back of my mind, something I can't quite put my finger on. Everything's gone so smoothly for the past few weeks, despite grieving for Danny and Gordon. There's something that won't let me trust it.

Something's going to go wrong; all of a sudden I'm sure of it. I look out the window at the mountains and try to shake it off. The bomb that killed Danny and Gordon left my family alive and exposed the conspiracy behind it--I should feel safe.

It's a perfect day--sunny and bright. Of course, that's the way it is most days, but it's still a relief that we're not facing one of the storms that sometimes power their way through the mountains. It's still relatively warm, too; despite the late date, the snow hasn't hit yet. Frank's got Bill's ring, I've got my vows memorized, got my mom hovering over me and various friends and relatives stopping by to wish me luck. Kat is glowing, just like they say pregnant women should, wearing a form-fitting dress that highlights her growing belly. Chelle's glowing, too, every time she looks at Kat. She comes up to me, gives me a hug, and hands me something.

"Bill wanted me to give you this. He said since you're so into the ritual and tradition, he figured you'd want something old, blue, borrowed, all that shit. So this is something old, for you to borrow."

It's the key ring I gave him for Christmas. I open it and see that he's added something to the inscription: October 15, 2003, WB to TB, until we're 104. He's changed the pictures, too--there's one of the two of us in front of the creek, before we started building; one of Sarah and Ruth; and one of Bill, Sarah, Ruth, and Billie on the couch. I leaf through them slowly, treasuring each image.

"Tell him--tell him thanks, that I love him, would you, Chelle? And give him this." She takes the box from me and looks at me curiously.

"What is it?"

"It's a Zuni fetish bowl. Be careful, it's fragile."

"Okay," she says dubiously, then kisses my cheek with a smile and leaves the room. Frank comes back in, resplendent in his tux.

"C'mon, it's almost time. You ready?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm ready. Is everybody doing all right? Any problems?"

"Everyone's fine, Tim. No one's tried to get in except a couple reporters, and we got rid of them, no problem."

"Doesn't that seem a little weird to you, that there's not anyone protesting? We haven't had any death threats, or bomb threats, or anything. Doesn't that make you nervous?"

"No, it doesn't make me nervous. Just relax, bunk--all the humps are locked up. Besides, no one in their right mind would try anything today--every other guest at this thing is a cop."

"Have you got your gun?"

"My _gun_? I turned in my Glock with my badge, Tim. Never had one of my own."

I go to the safe, get out both guns, hand one to Frank. "Here." I holster the other on my belt, hoping the tux jacket will cover it, because Bill's not going to be too happy about it being there.

"Are you out of your damned mind?"

I look into those dark eyes of his and tell him seriously, "Look, I have a bad feeling, and I would feel better if someone else who was going to be standing up there in front, someone besides me, was carrying. Just in case."

"Tim, I haven't--you know I can't shoot worth a damn, and nothing's gonna happen--why are you doing this?"

"Because I want Bill to be safe. On the chance that someone tries something, they'll go for me first. I know it sounds crazy, but it's important to me, all right?"

"You really think something's going to happen?"

"I don't know, Frank. Like I said, I have a feeling. It's probably nothing, but right now I can't shake it. So will you do this for me?"

"Fine, fine, I'll carry the damned gun." I can tell he's just humoring me, but that's all right.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now come on, let's head outside, get this circus act on the road."

I'm ready and waiting in time to see Bill walk my mom down the aisle and get her seated. He catches my eye as Billie, Sarah, and Ruth make their way down to the front. He looks amazing--his tux fits him perfectly, and the blue and silver vest brings out the sparkle in his eyes. Frank and John stand to either side of him, the girls spread out next to them, and they all look wonderful, but he's the only thing I see as I slowly make my way down the aisle.

****

Everything's going fucking great. Tim looks even better than he usually does; he's got a dignity about him, one that he wears well. His words to me are full of love, commitment, passion. He puts the ring on my finger, and I start to tell him, tell everyone, just a tiny fucking portion of everything he means to me. John hands me the ring, and I'm about to put it on his finger, when I hear Frank yell at Tim to get down.

He does, immediately, but I'm standing there like a dink until Tim pulls me down next to him. It's as he's pulling me down that I finally get with the fucking program and realize there's someone shooting at us, and fuck, my arm is burning, especially where I just banged it against the ground. Tim's on top of me, and I have a flashback of Church Canyon, but this time he's the one who's yelling, yelling at Frank to get down and to help me, and that's when I realize my arm is burning because it's got a fucking hole in it, just a little south of the shoulder. Not a big hole, I guess, but it still hurts like a motherfucker, especially when Frank yanks my jacket off and wraps it around my arm.

I just sort of lay back and let all the cop types do their thing. Tim's made sure Frank's taking care of me, so he takes care of the shooter, once he gets a clear shot. It's just like he is on the shooting range--he gets an incredible look of concentration on his face, squeezes off a couple rounds, and then someone falls out of a tree, one that's further away than I realized. Once that's done, he turns back to me, and I realize I'm still holding the ring. I choke back a strangled laugh. Fuck, even that hurts.

I think it's been about sixty seconds since Frank yelled at Tim.

"Bill, jesus, are you okay? Frank, he's not bleeding too much, is he? Has anyone called a fucking ambulance yet? We need an ambulance here, now! Where's Dr. Taggert, and Marilyn? We need some help over here, dammit!" There are tears in his eyes, and I reach up to stroke them away.

"Tim, it's not that bad. Just need someone to bandage it up, that's all, and then we can finish the ceremony."  
He leans down, puts his forehead against mine, and enfolds me in those long arms of his. I grab on and hold him just as tight, even though my shoulder is killing me. Yeah, I'm the one who got shot, but he's the one she was aiming for.

We stay like that until Marilyn and one of the state troopers come up to look at my arm--Dr. Taggert and the other nurses are busy with people who need them a fuckload more than I do, not that I care to think about that right now. They put a bandage around it and tell me I need to get to the ER. Tim's ready to practically carry me over to the ambulance, fucking bum leg and all, but I tell him to hold on.

"Listen, Marilyn--can we just put off this trip for just a minute? Go ahead and have the ambulance take the others in; you can come back for me. We've got a wedding to finish here."

I expect Tim to protest, to insist that I get to the hospital right this second, but he doesn't. He looks at me for a few seconds, then nods. He tries to help me up, almost losing his balance, but by then I've made it up on my own. He grimaces a little, without even realizing it, I think, and leans heavily on his cane, turning to face the wedding guests, scattered all over the meadow.

"Can I have your attention, please?" he says loudly. "Everyone?" And fuck if people don't start gathering round again. The FBI agents and Arizona troopers are loading up the injured into ambulances--it looks like everyone's still alive, although Fred Bartlett's one of the ones who got shot. The guests look a little shell-shocked, especially the civilians, but they take their seats when Tim gestures to them, and the Unitarian minister stands in front of us again, and I put the ring on his finger. The minister says a few things, I don't even know or care what, and then Tim kisses me, I kiss him, long and deep and sweet, and our friends and relatives start applauding.

"I love you," I tell him.

"I love you," he answers. "Now, let's get you to town, get you fixed up, so we can come back here for the reception."

"Tim--who was that?"

His eyes darken. "Jessica Eisen."

"That fucking bitch who outed you to the elders?" It's a good thing they've already got her in the ambulance. That way I can't beat the shit out of her, which is what I really want to do. Or maybe throw some fucking stones at her, see how she likes that.

"Shit, Bill, I never even thought--I should have realized she'd come after me. I knew she hated me, and I knew she was a fanatic, but I never thought she'd do something like this. I let myself forget about her, and I never should have done that." He's beating himself up about this--big fucking surprise--so I put aside my need to hurt the bitch and get back to what's important.

"Doesn't matter, Tim. It's over, we're okay, and we just got married. Let the rest of it go." He nods a little doubtfully, probably realizing I'm trying to convince myself as much as him, kisses me again, and leads me over to a trooper's car for the trip into town.

"Frank, Gloria over there is in charge of the reception. Can you help out, make sure everyone knows we're okay, we'll be back soon, and this is still a celebration?"

"I'll do that," Frank answers. John comes over, takes his jacket off, and hands it to me.

"I think you're going to need this," he says, gesturing vaguely at the blood stained jacket wrapped around my arm.

"Thanks, Johnny." He smiles that sweet Oxenburger smile and gives my good shoulder a squeeze.

Tim opens the car door for me, then reaches over and embraces Frank before joining me in the back seat.  
"Thank you, Frank. For everything. You saved our lives, you know."

Frank waves off the thanks with embarrassment. "Go on, bunk, get him to the hospital. We'll see you when you get back."

Fortunately Flagstaff Medical Center's ER isn't very crowded. They've already taken Bartlett, the trooper, and psycho bitch to surgery. Some of the staff recognize us, and we explain what happened. Along with stitches and pain killers, I get oohed and ahhed over more than I have since Kat and Chelle came to Phoenix the first time, and both of us get a fuckload of congratulations. It only takes a couple hours and a dozen promises to call and let them know how we're doing before we're on our way back to the reception. As we leave the hospital, I get the opportunity to thank Tim for his wedding gift.

"It's great, Tim--but what the fuck is it?"

"It's a Zuni fetish bowl."

"Okay. What the fuck is a Zuni fetish bowl?" He goes into Earnest Tim mode, and I smile. I win.

"Well, the animals around the outside are fetish animals--they each have a certain significance. The owl protects our house, the beaver is the builder of family and home, the snake represents rebirth, and the turtle brings longevity. The bowl is their home, and the cornmeal inside is to feed them."

"Home, family, rebirth, longevity. That's good. Thank you."

"You're welcome. How's the arm?"

"It's fine, doesn't even hurt anymore." I'm lying, and he knows it, but it's all right.

"So you'll be up for some dancing?"

"It's my fucking wedding day, isn't it?"

And then he leans over and kisses me hard, pulling me close, and I feel him shaking a little. I know why--shit, I remember how I felt when I saw him in that hospital bed, when I knew he was alive and was going to survive. And we both felt it just a few weeks ago, sitting in back of another fucking patrol car. So I kiss him back just as hard, hold him just as close, even though it makes my arm hurt like a motherfucker. Then I break off and look into those clear eyes, stroke his face, remind him again that I'm not going anywhere.

The reception's certainly going strong when we get back. They serve dinner pretty quickly after we get there, and then there are the toasts--from Frank, from Johnny, and a long, rambling, fucking hilarious one from Munch, and then more from Virginia, Nancy, Lewis, Kat, Chelle, and others. There's a short toast from Deeja, out of rehab just a couple weeks, and doing pretty well. Tim vetoed the idea of serving any alcohol, but people seem to be having a pretty good time anyway.

Hours later, things are starting to wind down a little, and I'm sitting with Ruth and Billie, who are pretending they're not about to fall asleep, when I feel a tap on the top of my head. It's Nancy.

"Care to dance with your sister-in-law?" she asks.

"Sure, Nance. Just let me say goodnight to Ruth and Billie first. Don't give me that look, lovebug--it's way past your bedtime. Ruthie, you've been yawning the past fifteen minutes; don't think I didn't see--go on, your grandma will tuck you in, and Tim and I will peek in on you before we go to bed."

"Am I supposed to call Virginia grandma, Dad?"

"Only if you want to, sweetie. I love you, and I love you; sleep well, sleep well, and the two of you say goodnight to Tim before you go with Virginia--he's right over there."

"Night, Dad. Love you lots and lots."

"Night, Bill. I'm glad you married my dad."

"Me too, Nature Girl. Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite, and go to bed already," I tell them with hugs and kisses. Miss Mighty Mouse sees what's up and heads over for some more hugging, being careful of my arm. "Sarah, make sure they get to bed--I'm going to dance with your Aunt Nancy now."

I watch fondly as Sarah ushers the younger girls over to Tim for another round of hugs and kisses.

"They're great kids, Bill," Nancy says. "Billie's got your eyes and your smile."

"Funny thing is, Ruthie's the image of Tim, even though there's no biology behind it. I think she's going to be tall, too."

"We Bayliss kids definitely got the tall gene," she replies, smiling down on me from three inch heels. "You and my brother make a pretty striking couple, you know," she adds.

"You Bayliss kids have a way of making anyone look good. If Steve were here with you, Tim and I would have some serious competition. But we'd still win," I add with a smirk.

"Why, thank you, Mr. Boisy," she says with a mock curtsey. "Now, would you kindly accompany me to the dance floor, since my husband's halfway across the country and yours is too stubborn to admit his leg's bothering him?"

"My husband," I murmur, shaking my head in disbelief. "Jesus, I am so fucking lucky."

"From what I can see, so is my brother. There haven't been many times in his life when he's been happy, and none of them compare to now. Thank you, Bill, for everything you've done for him. Thank you for bringing Timmy back out of that damned black hole he fell into after he got shot."

Her voice is shaky by the end of this little speech, and I pull her close with my good arm and kiss her cheek. "He pulled me out, too, you know. Billie, she started it, but Tim brought me the rest of the way. Your brother's an incredible man."

"He loves you so much. I'd warn you not to ever hurt him, but I don't have to, do I? Because you love him just as much."

"Yeah, I do."

"Good. Congratulations, and welcome to the family, Bill."

"Thanks, Nancy. It's--I've never--it's good to be part of the family."

She looks over my shoulder with a smile, and a second later I feel Tim behind me, leaning on my good shoulder. "I'm tired," he says playfully. "Exhausted, really. Aren't you tired, Bill? It's been a long day, and I didn't sleep well last night. I think we should get to bed, don't you?"

"Now that you mention it, I am pretty worn out," I answer, turning to face him. "You think anyone would mind if we headed inside, Nancy?" She laughs as I bury my face in his neck, his arms around me. I have to admit I don't even hear her response, because as soon as I've gotten my lips on his skin, I don't give a flying fuck about anything except getting him naked in our bed, now. I get my free hand on his ass and give him a nudge, and sure enough that's no gun in his pants, and he's very happy to see me.

Neither one of us is paying much attention by now, but I think they applaud us again as we head out of the tent and up to the house. Tim's whispering in my ear that we've got a two week honeymoon that starts right now, and he plans to spend it sleeping and fucking, not necessarily in that order, and it's too bad he can't move any quicker, because the sooner he gets me into the house, the sooner he can start taking my clothes off and checking every inch of me to make sure I don't have any other injuries.

"And just how were you planning on checking for injuries?" I ask huskily.

"Oh, I figured I'd look you over carefully, first, and then, well, I might have to touch you, you know, to make sure I didn't miss anything. And to be extra thorough, I think I might have to use something more sensitive than just my fingers, especially if you're feeling sore, or maybe just a little stiff."

"I'm definitely stiff, detective, and getting stiffer by the minute." The party's behind us, so I grab his hand and let him feel just how stiff I am. He groans as his hand and fingers map me gently through trousers and boxers, jesus, I want him so fucking badly. "Shit," I mutter. "Promised the girls we'd check on them before we went to bed."

"And _I_ told them it was our wedding night and we'd see them in the morning," Tim answers, squeezing my dick before releasing it to open the front door. "Sarah promised me they'd stay up in their rooms, and my mom's sleeping in Ruth's with her. It's my wedding night, the only one I ever plan on having, and I'm not waiting any longer to get you into bed."

"Did you get much sleep last night?" I ask him. "Because I sure as fuck didn't, not without you there."

"Slept like shit," he confirms agreeably. "Come on, we're nearly there." We struggle the rest of the way down the hall--between my arm and his leg, neither one of us is moving very quickly. He pauses for a second at the doorway.

"Tim, if you make some sort of comment about wanting to carry me over the fucking threshold, I'll fucking kill you."

He laughs, gesturing for me to proceed him through the doorway. As soon as we're inside, he shuts the door and starts kissing me, making a pretty thorough exploration of my mouth with his tongue, and what was stiff a minute ago is so hard I'm about to come in my pants. I try to shrug off my jacket and unfasten the stupid fucking sling they forced on me at the hospital, only to be forcibly reminded of why they gave it to me. "Fuck," I mutter, grimacing in pain, and Tim's there, his fingers on my lips.

"Shhh, let me," he says, gently unfastening it, leading me to the bed and sitting down next to me. You'd think that a bullet in the fucking bicep (no broken bones, just a fucking flesh wound, nothing compared to what Tim's been through, and more than once) wouldn't affect your ability to use the rest of your arm, but you'd be wrong. Fucking gimp, that's me.

"Interesting look you've got going there." Tim interrupts my pity party, gesturing at the tattered remains of my left sleeve.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and have to laugh. "It was either let them cut the sleeve off, or go to my wedding reception in a scrub shirt," I explain. "Besides, I didn't want to mess with the tie--it took forever to get it on straight."

"On anyone else, it would look stupid, but on you it just looks hot."

"Whatever you say, Tim. But why'd you stop? I liked where we were going there."

He smiles, pulls my tie off, starts on the braces, then the buttons. He eases my vest and shirts off carefully, running his fingers lightly along the outside of the bandage, frowning at the bruising all around it. Then he leans his forehead against mine and takes a deep breath. I wrap my good arm around him and ignore the pain enough to stroke his face with my other hand, unsurprised at the dampness at the corner of his eye.

"I'm right here," I tell him. "Not going anywhere, remember? And I'm sure by now we've earned at least a few weeks without anyone trying to kill us."

"Shit, I sure hope so." He buries his face in my neck for a few seconds, then lifts his head and meets my eyes. "Just promise me something, all right? The next time someone shouts 'get down,' hit the fucking dirt already."

"I don't suppose you'd listen if I told you he said, 'get down, Tim,' not 'get down, Bill,' or even 'get down, everyone.'"

"You're right, I wouldn't listen. Jesus, Bill--" I make him look at me.

"I'm okay, Tim. No one died, not even that fucking bitch who shot at us. Bartlett and the others are going to be fine, and you and I managed to get married. We won; she lost. Now come on, get that fucking sexy tuxedo off--you promised me we'd be naked in this bed, and I'm sick and tired of waiting."

That works well enough to get him out of his little funk, and he gets his own vest and shirts off in short order before running his fingers gently over my chest and shoulders, urging me to sit forward so he can do the same to my back. Then he tenderly divests me of socks, trousers, and silk boxers, turning away for a minute to finish undressing himself. The two of us pull the covers back, and he returns to his careful scrutiny for a minute before giving up and leaning in to kiss me.

"I don't want to hurt your arm," he says. "How do you want me?"

"That's a stupid fucking question," I answer, reaching up to stroke his face again. "Any fucking way I can get you. Seriously, Detective Angst, I'll be fine like this." He grabs a pillow and makes me promise to keep my arm there and let him know if it's bothering me, and then he finally rests his whole body on mine and starts kissing me again, deeply, passionately, matching the thrusts of his tongue with the rest of his body, at last, jesus fuck that's so fucking good. Between building the house, planning the wedding, everything that's happened in the past few months, and dealing with frightened kids interrupting us with nightmares, we've had even less privacy lately than we did in California. When you add the fact that we didn't even sleep together last night, well, let's just say it doesn't take much time before the feel of his cock against mine pushes me over the edge with a moan. He lasts all of thirty seconds longer than I do, but that's just fine with both of us, thank you very fucking much. There'll be plenty of time for long and slow, not to mention hard and deep, in the next two weeks, two months--fuck, the rest of our lives.

No, tonight's all about re-establishing the connection. It may have been short, it might not have required any lube or flexibility, but it was fucking sweet and hot and full of love. Pretty fucking good for a wedding night, if you ask me.

****

The day after the wedding, I screw up my courage and look up Tim's number in my wife's address book. Virginia called yesterday to let me know what happened, so I know they're still at home. I wait until noon to call, but the voice that answers is still gruff with sleep.

"Hello?"

"Tim, is that you? Sorry I woke you."

"Hold on a minute," the voice answers. The man who answered, Bill, I guess it must be (who else would it be, you idiot), mumbles something, and then I hear Tim's voice, much more awake, asking who it is.

"It's me," I answer.

"Jim, how are you? I've been wanting to call and thank you for the tickets."

"You're welcome. Listen, I'm sorry we couldn't make it for the wedding--what with the kids' schedules and all, it just didn't work out." The truth was, I still couldn't accept the fact that my cousin was gay--I'm getting there, but I'm not ready to attend some sort of commitment ceremony.

"It's all right. I understand what it's like having teenagers, and I know it was short notice." I don't know if he actually believes that, but it's nice for him to maintain the fiction that he does.

"I was wondering--I mean, I know you'll be coming home to visit in the spring, but I was wondering what your plans were for next month. Because Shannon and I would really like it if you could spend Thanksgiving with us. All of you."

Silence. Shit, he's still pissed at me for what I said a few years ago. Not that I blame him.

"Uh, it's not that I don't appreciate the invitation, but I think we already had some pretty concrete plans," he answers finally. "Let me check with Bill, though; he's been organizing it all."

"I'm sorry, Teej, I should have realized. Look, let's just forget Thanksgiving; what are you doing for Christmas?" Christ, I sound desperate. Tim sounds a little flat when he answers me, and I wonder if I'm missing something. What if they were having a fight, or even worse, about to have sex? That's not a thought I want to be having. Maybe it's just because I didn't come to the wedding. Maybe it's because some psycho shot at him yesterday, at his wedding.

"Uh, hold on, let me see if I can get the rock star to get his ass in gear and tell me what the plans are," Tim says, and then I hear "that's not buddies" mumbled in the background. No, what was I thinking--Bill was obviously asleep. It's three hours earlier there, and they got married last night (Tim married another man last night)--of course he was asleep. Probably worn out from fucking my cousin.

The conversation that follows is only slightly muffled; I can hear both sides without straining.

"What are the plans for Phoenix?" Tim asks, a little nervously. I can't put a finger on what it is in his tone of voice, but there's definitely something major going on.

"Uh, go down there, play the benefit, eat with the 3-11 shift. Why? Jim invited you for Thanksgiving?"

"Invited _us_, Bill. All of us."

"What do you think?" I can't be sure, but Bill's voice sounds studied in its calmness, like he's trying to keep Tim from flipping out. There's some rustling, a thump, and then Tim's back on the phone.

"Jim, can we call you back? I've got to--shit--" and he must drop the phone on the bed, because the next thing I hear is Bill calling, "wait, Tim, come on," then, distinctly and with feeling, "Fuck."

A second later Bill picks up the phone. "Sorry about that," he says quietly, and I can hear the worry in his voice. What the hell is going on?

"No, look, I'm the one who should apologize, calling you on your vacation." I can't manage to call it a honeymoon, not out loud. "Waking you up, springing this on you out of the blue--I should've realized you'd already have plans."

There's a slight pause before he answers me, this time in a careful, measured tone. "Let me ask you something, Jim. How often did you see your Uncle George when you were a kid?"

What? "What does that have to do with--" I start, then stop in growing horror. There's still a part of me that wants to forget what was done to Tim as a child, forget I ever saw him tell the world about it during the Russert interview, but that's not exactly fair. Because Tim's never going to be able to forget it.

"Holidays," I say heavily, feeling utterly stupid.

"The first time that sick fuck molested him was Thanksgiving, when he was five. Didn't they usually have Thanksgiving at your house, because it was the biggest?"

"Jesus, I'm such a fucking idiot." Five years old. In this house, which used to be my parents'. In my house. Oh, Tim, I'm sorry.

"You didn't know," Bill says softly. "Now you do."

"It's totally obvious! How could I _not_ have known?" The way he always wanted to play in my room instead of watching the game with the rest of us. His attitude at holidays, so different from how he normally acted.

"You didn’t," he reiterates. "Now you do."

"I've fucked it up, haven't I? We're barely speaking again, and I've fucked it up." Something inside me has shifted, something about my attitude towards the musician from Canada I've never even met, the man who is Tim's lover, because he so clearly knows, understands, and loves my cousin, looks out for him, the way I used to look out for him when we were kids. Better than I did, because I clearly didn't look out for him enough.

"Now you _are_ being a stupid fuck. He loves you, you idiot. He thinks of you as a brother, and he's missed you more than you know, these past few years. Yeah, the thought of Thanksgiving in Baltimore scares the shit out of him, but that's nothing new. He didn't always have to work holidays, you know--sometimes he just told you he did, because he couldn't face that house of yours."

"I guess this explains why he always started drinking the minute he walked in the door, those few times he did come. I always thought he was just letting loose, because of his job, the kinds of things he saw."

"That was part of it. Listen, Jim, give him a little time. We spent last November in the hospital, and we both wanted to go back there this year, play a benefit, hang out with the nurses and staff, because they were incredible, helped us both through some really tough shit, and because there aren't--the memories there are different. I don't know about Christmas, though--that's a possibility. Just give me a little time to feel him out on it, okay?"

"Sure. I'd appreciate that. And I appreciate--I mean, it's obvious you really care about him, so thanks, for taking care of him." For taking better care of him than I did.

"It's pretty easy to do--he's a good man."

"Yeah, he is. I'm sorry we couldn't make it for the wedding, really." For the first time, I actually mean it.

"You should have seen his face when we got your gift. He's really looking forward to the game, went on and on about how he's never made it to opening day."

"I had to figure out some way to get him back home for a visit, since I missed him the last time." I send my unspoken thanks for the change of subject.

"That did the trick. We'll be there, don't worry--although I might have some problems convincing Mary to let me take Billie out of school for a baseball game thousands of miles away."

"I look forward to meeting her, and meeting you." And I actually do, for the first time, look forward to meeting Bill Boisy. I'm still freaked out by the thought of Tim with a man, but I guess he's found a good one.

"Likewise. Listen, I'd better let you go--I think Tim's doing some meditating, but I want to check on him, make sure he's all right."

"Sure, of course. And Bill--thanks. For telling me." For loving him.

"You're welcome. We'll give you a call back, let you know about Christmas."

He hangs up just as Shannon comes up behind me. "What did he say?" she asks eagerly. She and the kids have missed Tim as much as I have, and they've been much more accepting of his new life.

She sees my face, I tell her about the conversation, and she puts her arms around me and starts to cry. And I wonder if I should sell the house, because suddenly I'm not too keen on living here anymore.

****

I'm trying to meditate, but I can hear Bill's muffled voice in the other room. The third time I catch myself trying to figure out what he's saying, I give up and head into the bathroom, splash my face. I can't believe I flaked out like that from a simple invitation, an invitation that by all rights should thrill me.

By the time I head into the living room, Bill's off the phone, drinking some coffee. He looks up when I enter the room, then sits down next to me, bringing my hand to his lips.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"I told him I'd talk to you about Christmas."

"What else did you tell him?"

"Asked him how often he used to see his uncle, growing up. He figured the rest out on his own."

"Sorry I left you to deal with it."

"Not a problem. Just want to make sure you're okay."

"How did he react?"

"He was upset, Tim; what do you expect? Said he felt stupid for not realizing it earlier."

"He's not stupid."

"That's what I told him."

He wraps his right arm around me, and I notice he's not using his sling.

"How's the arm?"

"Is that your not so subtle way of changing the fucking subject?"

"That depends--did it work?"

He sighs, then kisses me. "For now."

"How's the arm?"

"Hurts, but it's better than it was last night. We will have to talk about this, you know."

"I know. The docs said you need to keep your arm in the sling for 48 hours at least."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't wearing it while I was sleeping, all right, mom?"

"Where is it? I'll go get it--is it still in the bedroom?"

He sighs, but lets me up with a nod. "When do we have to be at the station?" he calls after me.

"Uh, about an hour. Sorry we had to postpone the flight to Calgary."

"I don't fucking care about that. It's not as though I don't know how to talk with cops--we'll get it over with, then leave tomorrow instead. Kids'll probably appreciate having us around another day anyway."

I head back into the living room and help him refasten the sling. Then he says, "Speaking of the girls, where the fuck are they?"

"They went out to breakfast with my mom and some of the other guests, remember?"

"So we have about forty-five minutes before we have to leave?"

"That's about right. Now that you're awake--"

"Now that I'm awake, I think a shower is in order, don’t you? And I'm going to need some help, what with my arm and all."

And that's how Bill and I end up arriving at the police station fifteen minutes late, with wet hair. Because showering together never seems to save us any time at all.


End file.
